The United States of Hetalia
by Jabberwock-Reaper
Summary: Thought your family was crazy? Then you obviously haven't met America's states. With fifty-two people and an alien in one house, things can get insane! A oneshot series that features OCs for the fifty states, Canadian provinces/territories, and D.C.
1. Meeting of the States

**Disclaimer: WE DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA. HELL, EVEN THE ALMIGHTY JABBERWOCKSLAYER DOESN'T OWN HALF OF THE OCS USED. IF WE OWNED APH, THIS WOULD BE CANON. SO THERE.**

"All right," An extremely stout boy with neatly cut blond hair announced in a carrying (and slightly snobbish) voice, "let the Conference of States begin!" His dark blue eyes surveyed the collection of teenagers seated around the huge table mistrustfully, though he looked a lot younger than most of the people there. This boy, as we shall learn, was the personification of Washington D.C. He began to pace the room as he spoke.

All around the room, teenagers rolled their eyes as their pompous sibling ranted. No one took D.C. seriously, after all. New York had his iPod headphones in and was bobbing his head to the beat of some obscure showtune. Connecticut was sleeping (because after all, no one noticed him, anyway). Delaware was trying his best to get Pennsylvania to _leave him the hell alone._

All in all, it was safe to say that not one soul was paying attention. If he noticed, D.C. acted as though he didn't care. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and began speaking again.

"This is a purely political meeting to better our great country," he continued, "and as such, I don't want to hear anything about idiotic personal squabbles!" He let his gaze scathe over the Southern states for this one—they were all sitting together. A scowling blond girl, looking to be around sixteen or seventeen, seemed to be the most dominant of these states. She was seated next to a much more docile girl who looked exactly like her.

"Damn Yank," the scowling girl muttered, glaring at D.C. This was South Carolina, the Yankee-hating girl who had first seceded during the Civil War.

Her twin sister, North Carolina, looked mortified, murmuring, "Natasha, hush!" as she nervously looked at the table. However, it was too late; D.C. had already heard her. "What was that, South Carolina?" He said, glaring.

Unfortunately, pint-sized blond boys aren't nearly as intimidating as D.C. would have liked to think they are. South Carolina simply glared at him for a second or two with eyes that screamed of murder and D.C. backed down, continuing on with his arrogant drivel.

"Now, unless anyone has anything to say regarding _political issues only_," D.C. said with a glint in his eye as he pulled New York's headphones out of his ears ("WHAT THE HELL!" The irate New Yorker exclaimed), "I'll pick a topic and we shall get started."

Rhode Island, a small brunette boy, smiled happily and raised his hand. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief; the youngest of the original thirteen colonies was never up to any good. Despite his past experiences with Rhode Island, D.C. sighed and pointed at the boy.

"Yes, Rhode Island?" D.C. said. "You can speak."

"Texas is stupid~!" Rhode Island exclaimed gleefully.

That was when all hell broke loose.

Now, 'all hell' might be exaggerating a little. After all, it started out innocently enough. Some of the Northern states were nodding in agreement at Rhode Island's comment and laughing; the New England states seemed especially amused. An irate boy with slightly tanned skin, auburn hair and a cowboy hat stood up, glaring at Rhode Island.

"I ain't stupid!" He yelled, his Texas accent evident. "I 'm just as smart as any of you goddamned Yankees!"

"Can we sell him back to Mexico~?" Rhode Island queried happily, seeming not to care about the chaos he was causing. D.C. looked pissed, but not as pissed as Texas, who was ready to strangle Rhode Island at the mention of Mexico.

"Now, now, we've got to settle down and get on with the meeting," D.C. sighed, "…but I wouldn't mind selling Texas back to Mexico…."

Texas began angrily ranting about Mexico. While this was going on, New York grew bored… and honestly, there was nothing better to do than to annoy the resident Masshole.

"Hey, Witchy. The Yankees are better than Red Sox," New York said, grinning at Massachusetts evilly. "After all, who won the World Series last year, Mass~?" New Yorkers were unfortunately known for being jerks, and Benjamin Jones was no exception. Massachusetts didn't seem too pleased as he retorted.

"Shut the hell up, the Red Sox will always be better. And besides, when was the last time your other team actually did _anything_ worth bragging about?" The Masshole said, glaring through his glasses at the New Yorker.

"H-Hey! Shut up about the Mets, damnit! They're getting better!"

As if the room wasn't loud enough, with Texas ranting and New York and Massachusetts arguing, Louisiana began loudly wailing into his cell phone. Apparently, he had missed yet another date, with yet another girlfriend.

"No, non, ma fille, mi niña hermosa, I'm not standing you up! Non, I had an important family meeting… I know, that's what I had last time, but… breaking up with me? NON!" Louisiana shut his phone and dramatically sighed, his face the picture of sorrow.

"…don't you have, like, fifty-billion other girlfriends?" California asked, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

"…oui," Louisiana said reluctantly, still pouting. "…but, it still hurts."

Across the room, Pennsylvania sneakily glomped Delaware. He smiled innocently, hugging the younger brother who he still considered to be like his son.

"ROBIN~~~" he exclaimed, almost knocking the small blue chicken known as Delabird that normally resided on Delaware's head.

"DON'T CALL ME ROBIN!" Delaware yelled. "WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT? MY NAME IS HARRISON!"

Delabird tweeted at Pennsylvania angrily, and then settled herself back on Delaware's blond head.

"Well," Pennsylvania exclaimed happily, "Delabird is a bird, like a robin! And you're my sidekick, like in Batman and Robin! SO, YOUR NAME IS ROBIN~!"

Pennsylvania grinned childishly, as though what he had just explained was a huge scientific breakthrough.

Delaware sighed in disgust, pushing his older brother away.

"GET THE HELL OFF ME."

And in the midst of this chaos, D.C. snapped.

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" The small blonde boy roared, finally losing his cool. Everyone in the room immediately quieted—such an outburst from D.C. was truly very rare. A vein was throbbing in his temple, and his fists were clenched at his sides. Even South Carolina had quieted from pure shock.

"EVEN TONY IS MORE WELL BEHAVED THAN YOU!"

Tony, who had stolen Rhode Island's handheld gaming system and was now playing Cooking Mama, looked up and nodded before going back to making virtual rice-stuffed squid.

"D.C…" Virginia said in a tone that seemed concerned. He paid her no heed.

"I AM SICK OF YOU ALL ACTING LIKE SUCH DELINQUENTS!" D.C. continued. "NOW UNLESS YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY THAT HAS ANYTHING AT ALL TO DO WITH OUR NATION—BESIDES TEXAS' INTELLIGENCE LEVEL—SPEAK UP. OTHERWISE, GET THE HECK OUT!"

For a few minutes, everyone was quiet. Then, as though nothing at all had happened, the room burst out into lively conversation as the United States of America began walking out of the room, talking and arguing and laughing like most siblings do.

"…Well," New York said, in a voice that was half-amused and half-annoyed, "I think I've figured out why we don't have meetings much anymore."

"Really?" Massachusetts said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I never could have guessed, Yorkie."

"Shut the hell up!" New York growled, looking as though he half wanted to chuck his coffee at the Masshole.

And so, the latest Conference of States came to a close... with yet another argument.

**(A/N: Hello, JabberwockSlayer here. I hope that this offered an adequate introduction to the very...complicated and intricate fanon that my friend Reaper-Lawliet and I created. Uh, I hope you enjoyed this? Rhode Island, Virginia, Massachusetts, Delaware, Delabird, South Carolina, Connecticut, and TEXAS belong to Reaper. The rest are mine. **

**If anyone was curious, I choose Sawyer from "Lost" to voice-act for Texas. That just... it needs to be said. -shotdead-**

**Hey, if you liked it, you can review. If you hated it, you can review. Just tell me how to improve my writing and characters; it's all I ask. C:  
**

**All right- Bye!)**


	2. Of Fireworks and Failed Bonding

**Disclaimer:** We don't own Hetalia. If we did, there'd be a Mexico by now. We do, however, own the states.

* * *

Now, Alfred F. Jones may not have been the smartest of all the nations. But, he was smart enough to realize that forcing family bonding on a bunch of immortal teenagers was completely hopeless. Actually, it wasn't so bad when there was just thirteen of them- but the Louisiana Purchase made the whole thing a mess.

But, the Fourth of July meant "huge annual barbeque with loud explosions at night". Which also translated to, "the one night a year Dad can force family bonding. Yes, he gave up on Christmas the year Nevada 'accidentally' set the tree on fire".

And so, this year was no exception. Not that the states really minded the Fourth; New Hampshire used it as an excuse to blow things up, and some used it as an excuse to harass "Grandpa", whom grudgingly attended every year after Canada nicely asked him enough, or fertilized his crops enough on FarmVille. Which is why England now found himself sitting, although grumpily, in a folding lawn chair in America's backyard.

"Hey, Grandpa," Rhode Island smirked, "Germany kicked your butt at soccer!"

"Charlie, that isn't funny!" England scolded, half-glaring at one of his youngest 'grandchildren'. "And it's _football."_

"_Football_ is a manly sport. _Soccer _is not." Rhode Island explained, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're just mad 'cause Dad didn't get the booze out yet."

England folded his arms and was about to make some sort of sarcastic remark when suddenly, a brownish-red haired boy with big, blue eyes, glasses, wearing a Vikings jersey and a pair of jeans tripped over a random football and landed face-down on the grass.

"Are you okay, Minnesota?" Rhode Island asked, running over and helping the older boy up.

Minnesota smiled sheepishly as he got up and brushed himself off. "Yeah, I just need to be more careful, eh. Didn't see that football there."

"Maybe you should've been watching where you were going," a brunette boy with a Packers jersey sitting on the deck commented, "Anyone could've placed a random football there, y'know?" He glared at Minnesota, dislike apparent in his blue eyes as he munched on a cheesestick.

"Oh, Wisconsin," Minnesota forced a smile, "I know you're upset that the Vikings are better than your Packers, but there's no need to get violet. It doesn't solve anything, doncha know."

Wisconsin stood up angrily. "SHUT UP, YOU CANADIAN-"

"BOTH OF YOU, SHUT UP!" a third boy finally yelled. He had been sitting by Wisconsin, and had dark brown, almost black, hair with a rather large wild strand, and blue eyes. "NOW STOP FIGHTING, OR I SWEAR I'LL GET OUT MY WRENCH."

"Yes, Michigan," Wisconsin and Minnesota muttered, before returning to passively glaring at each other.

Not wanting interfere with Midwest drama, Rhode Island wandered back over to England, whom had apparently no idea that someone other than New York and Massachusetts had a major rivalry in the Jones household. He remembered Georgia having a great disliking towards Spain's girl, Florida, but that was it.

"Eh, you've never seen them really go at it," Rhode Island shrugged, looking at the expression on England's face. "This one time, it got so bad, Minnesota broke his arm. He was mad because he couldn't play hockey for a while. But I don't really think Michigan should be one to talk about peacekeeping. He went to war with Ohio over this thing called 'Toledo'."

Everyone in the Jones household- well, almost everyone, at least- remembered the Toledo War. Michigan and Ohio still hated each other because of that. Yes, the Midwest deserved the prize for "Region With the Most Rivalries". No, not "Region Most Deserving of its own ABC Sitcom". That prize went to New England, but they're a separate matter entirely.

"…And you act as though this is normal," England commented, staring at Rhode Island as if he has just commented that it was raining cows. "I seem to have forgotten how crazy Alfred's states are."

"Oh, you haven't even seen the really insane ones!" Rhode Island smiled. "And besides, most of these kids are France's!"

Across the yard, New York was, for some reason, sitting with Massachusetts. And you could tell which one was which because New York wore an "I heart NY" t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, while Massachusetts wore a Red Sox t-shirt and faded jeans. Massachusetts, although older than New York, was smaller, had darker, messier blonde hair, and wore a pair of thick glasses that he was totally blind without.

"Hey, Witchy, is this your favorite holiday?" New York asked suddenly, looking at his older brother and taking a sip of Starbucks coffee.

"No, why?"

"Because we finally declared ourselves free of England. I know how much you hate him," New York replied, folding his arms. "And today gives you a free excuse to make fun of him."

Now, that made Massachusetts think. Sure, he hated England for many reasons- the Intolerable Acts that were passed to punish him for dumping tea into the harbor, capturing Maine during the War of 1812, and generally being a jerk. He remembered when he was younger, fighting the Revolution, sporting his old blue uniform and a bayonet; fighting alongside New Hampshire, Connecticut, and Rhode Island to defend Bunker Hill; and saying good-bye to Maine, whom was so little and cried so much when his big brother had to go to war.

"…Nah, it's not my favorite holiday." It was Massachusetts' turn to fold his arms.

"What is it then, Linus?"

"Oh, that's easy." The Bay State grinned. "Whenever the Yankees lose, it's a holiday for me."

"I FREAKING HATE YOU."

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

Later that evening, after everyone had eaten catered barbeque food (honestly, ever try cooking for fifty-something people and an alien? Not fun. Might as well let someone else do it and get paid), Virginia brought out a rather large ice cream cake with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD" written over it in red icing. Everyone was seated around a huge table, with America at the head.

"Do we really have to sing?" asked a boy with messy brown hair asked. "I mean, because, let's face it, most of you can't. And by the time we finish 'How Old are You Now?', we'll be opening Christmas presents."

"Shut up, Nevada!" Delaware said, trying to push Pennsylvania off of him as Delabird tweeted angrily. "Besides, Tennessee can sing. And since when do you get Christmas presents, Mr. Sin City?"

"Hey!" Nevada glared at the older state. "It's not my fault I got too close to the Christmas tree with a lit match- okay, yeah, it is. BUT STILL!"

"You don't have to sing as long as we get to blow stuff up later!" America grinned.

"…Is that like, a diet cake?" California asked, petting her small dog, Hollywood.

"No," Virginia replied, "But I think you're skinny enough, Candice. But if you're really that concerned, just don't have any."

"Can we just eat the damn thing so I can blow crap up?" New Hampshire, a blonde boy with blue eyes, grinned like a four year-old with a double scoop of ice cream as he glanced at the house. Vermont, a girl with short, light, almost white, hair rolled her gray eyes, but her face remained blank.

"Wanna help, 'Liza?" New Hampshire asked, turning to Vermont, whom was seated in-between him and Maine.

"No," came her toneless reply. "I like having ten fingers."

"Damn, you're such a kill-joy," New Hampshire playfully shoved her. "Just watch the professionals do it, Eliza."

Vermont didn't say anything after that, but quietly thought about what an idiot her neighbor was- an idiot who liked risking missing fingers, smelling of gunpowder, and putting his booze stores on the highway.

After everyone enjoyed their cake (except for California, whom didn't want to risk gaining weight), New Hampshire and Pennsylvania ran inside to get their explosives. After fifteen minutes, both boys returned with boxes full of fireworks, firecrackers, and other things that were loud and generally made pretty sparkly things when blown up and posed a risk to take off fingers or limbs.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Vermont asked carefully as New Hampshire set up his 'babies'. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the stars were starting to come out. But, not as many were visible nowadays, Vermont noted. She remembered looking at the stars, many years ago, with her sister.

"_Look, Jenn! Stars! That one looks like a bear!"_

"_Oui, oui, very nice…can we go inside now? I'm getting bitten by bugs!"_

"Positive. I've done this every year, remember? And besides," New Hampshire glanced over his shoulder to look at her, "Since when are _you_ concerned with _my_ damn safety?"

"…Carry on." Vermont stepped back.

"Alright, guys, this is it!" New Hampshire grinned, somewhat crazily, as he lit a match and set his fireworks off. Pennsylvania did the same. Within seconds, there were all sorts of explosion, banging, and whistling noises. The air smelled of gunpowder, and several of the states started coughing. However, the night sky exploded into brilliant flares of all different colors- red, white, blue, purple, green, gold, orange, any color you care to name.

"HAPPY FREAKING FOURTH OF JULY!" New Hampshire yelled, laughing hysterically.

And once the fireworks and explosions died, things slowly returned to normal. One by one, the states started going inside and saying good-bye to England (except for Massachusetts and several others, who ignored him completely). New Hampshire and Vermont were the last two remaining outside.

"Well?" New Hampshire looked at Vermont, once again grinning. "What did you think?"

"…Pennsylvania did a better job," she said, with slight amusement in her tone as she walked inside.

"WHAT THE HELL? ELIZA! THAT'S NOT- YOU JERK!"

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, guys! Reaper (aka "Crazy Co-Author Number Two") here! This is a sort of introduction to some more states/belated Fourth of July. The Midwest was here because they weren't in the last chapters. Also, please don't kill me for Minnesota's accent. Remember, guys, it's stereotype.

Because someone asked, South Carolina's name, Natasha, is a bit of an inside joke. She was actually named after Belarus because she can be rather intimidating and scary. Also, we have profiles of some of the states up on deviantART (the links are on our profile). The information is REALLY outdated, so just ignore that, but you can see what they look like.

Review, please? If you can guess who Vermont's sister is, you get a cookie. Here's a hint: she's not a state.


	3. Lady Gaga is Scary

Candice Jones, better known as the State of California, wasn't the smartest state at all.

However, she_ was_ quite pretty, with sun-bleached (and most likely dyed) blond hair and tanned skin that seemed typical of any surfer girl. Her blond hair shook as she bobbed her head to the iPod headphones that snaked down from her ears to the pocket of her impeccably neat (and rather tight) jeans.

And she was singing along.

Now, California's voice wasn't horrible; it was, at the very least, it was mildly entertaining. However, the words of the song, coupled with the way she swung her hips to the beat that only she could hear, were downright…disturbing, not to mention provocative.

"Let's have some fun, this beat is sick!" California sang along to her iPod, drawing many stares from the area of the living room that was nearly thick with couches (after all, they had to seat over fifty people). "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick! Let's have some fun, this beat is sick! I wanna take a ride on your disco stick!"

The stares from the couched area of the living room grew from mildly curious to disturbed, with the exception of Rhode Island.

"That's what she said!" The small brunette boy called out happily, giggling to himself.

Massachusetts gave Rhode Island a slightly exasperated look and straightened his glasses, looking at his sister.

"…What," the Masshole inquired, "the hell are you singing?"

California showed no sign of hearing him, instead grinning happily and continuing to sing:

"I wanna kiss you, but if I do, then I might miss you, babe~!" California pouted and winked at no one in particular. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and moved her hips to the beat in a rather suggestive manner. "It's complicated and stupid; got my ass squeezed by a sexy—"

"What the hell are you singing?" Massachusetts removed the headphones from California's ears, raising an eyebrow behind his glasses. He gestured to a girl who seemed to be on the younger end of the states (she was maybe twelve or thirteen) with rather large violet eyes and brown hair. She looked…frightened, almost as though her dear Aunt Belarus had decided to show up with a butcher's knife and a thirst for revenge at America's front door.

"You're scaring Juno," Massachusetts scolded.

"Like, huh? I totally don't get it. What's scary about me…?" California gasped, suddenly grabbing her hair. "LIKE, DO I HAVE SPLIT ENDS?"

While California had a panic attack over her nonexistent split ends, Alaska spoke, her voice quiet.

"Lady Gaga scares me," Alaska said. She spoke with a soft Russian accent. "That woman is…frightening."

"Like, huh?" California said, having thoroughly checked her hair for demonic split ends. "How the hell is Lady Gaga frightening? She has awesome music, and she's totes pretty, and she's just all around totally cool!"

Before Alaska could even reply, California squealed. She grabbed her iPod, plugging the headphones into a petrified Alaska's ears. "Like, I know! Ohmagawd, you should just totally listen to her! Then, you won't be afraid anymore!"

Self-congratulatory, California was about to turn on her iPod when a boy walked into the room. This boy had blond hair and blue eyes; he was wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. In fact, if it weren't for the rather timid look in his eyes, it would be easy to mistake him for a certain jerky New Yorker.

On the far side of the room, said jerky New Yorker rose to his feet, a Spider-Man comic book in his right hand, and an empty coffee mug in the left. Though the other boy had barely stepped into the room, New York glared at his counterpart and spoke.

"Jersey, get the hell out of here!" New York snapped angrily. He was in a bad mood due to the lack of coffee in his mug, but that wasn't the real reason he was being so mean.

Now, New York hated his twin brother. One might think that possibly, hate was too strong of a word—I mean, could you imagine truly hating your own twin? However, New York hated New Jersey, and denied any affection he may have felt (very, very deep down) towards his only biological sibling. No one knew the reason, exactly (though it was fair to say that a great deal of the other states also harbored dislike towards New Jersey for no obvious reason, most notably Pennsylvania).

New York had been bullying New Jersey since they had both been very young, and as a result of this, New Jersey had rather low self-esteem, especially when it came to his high-crime areas. And really, New Jersey wasn't the kickass Guido that everyone expected him to be. He was just a timid, nice guy with an extremely bad reputation.

And New Jersey also stuttered, but for the sake of the plot, we won't even get into that.

Anyway, New Jersey looked at his feet, his expression…curiously ashamed. His twin, who scared him a little, continued to glare with an intense anger that the ill-tempered New Yorker seemed to possess only whenever someone even thought the phrase 'New Jersey'.

"JERSEY! I said, 'Get the hell out of here!'" New York said, his tone demanding and harsh. Massachusetts opened his mouth to say something, as though to reprimand the New Yorker. California, who was still perched next to Juno like a Valley Girl bird of prey, was watching the fighting with a ravenous look—she was obviously excited to gossip about this later. And Alaska just looked saddened and frightened; for some reason, she was rather attached to New Jersey, and she loved New York a great deal as well.

"Please, stop fighting…" Alaska said, barely audible.

New Jersey, who saw California still wielding the forgotten iPod in a rather threatening manner, and Alaska's frightened expression, frowned.

"J-Juno," he said quietly, walking quickly over to Alaska (New York and Massachusetts began arguing in the background, but it was so typical that most of the other states paid them no mind).

"J-Juno, are you okay?" New Jersey questioned, concerned, as he sat down next to Alaska. California's short attention span had by now moved on; she was now raptly watching New York and Massachusetts fight, even though it was most certainly not a rare occurrence.

"…I'm f-fine, Nicolas," Alaska said quietly. "Really."

Alaska was a poor, poor liar.

New Jersey frowned, unconvinced. He pressed her a little more:

"Juno, you looked f-f-f-frightened. Did s-someone hurt you?"

In the background, New York exclaimed angrily, "I can bully my goddamned twin if I effing want to!" New Jersey glanced at his twin shakily at that statement, but he soon turned his attentions back to Juno.

She finally replied, in her soft voice:

"…Lady Gaga is scary."

* * *

**A/N: I must apologize for the late-ness (and overall suckishness) of this chapter. I got my computer taken away, went away to several different states, and procrastinated a helluva lot. I had a draft which was something completely different that I ended up hating.**

**I repeated that process once again.  
**

**Finally, when Reaper took my beloved spork, I set out to write this chapter. I apologize once more. Tell her in reviews to give me my goddamned spork back.**

**The story behind this chapter? Simple. When I was in Canada, I heard that Lady Gaga song play so many times. And it just stayed in my head until I wrote this. But for the record, Reaper _does_ fear Lady Gaga. **

**I own New Jersey, New York (OH BEN YOU JERK YOU), and California. Reaper owns Alaska, Rhode Island (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID), and the Masshole. Thankfully, neither of us own Lady Gaga, and we don't own the concept of APH, either. **

**Love, **

**JabberwockSlayer  
**

**P.S. A note on New Jersey: I know that he's not a stereotype. I'm sorry. He was a joke at first, and...I...I'm sorry.**

**P.P.S. Reviews boost our extremely low self-confidence. And, I promise that my next chapter will be out sooner.  
**


	4. Families

Any one of America's children could tell you that family is important; after all, for kids like them, you either befriend your siblings or have no friends. There are, occasionally, a few friends from the outside; maybe a significant other or two. However, these die or leave or become frightened in a short amount of time; the bonds that are forged through centuries and centuries of conflict and brotherhood will always be indefinitely firmer.

There are the classic rivalries.

New York and Massachusetts, they might be the most notorious ones to have such a relationship. One might think it was borne with baseball, but truthfully, it runs much deeper than that. They are always arguing, always fighting, though there are hints at a mutual respect and even liking between them at times.

New York is rash, hasty, immature, and rude. Massachusetts is sarcastic, truthful to the point of being as blunt as the tip of a baseball bat.

They even seem to fight over (though it seems to be more of a true fight on New York's part) their little brother, Connecticut, a sweet and quiet boy who tends to get caught in the middle.

Yet the two have an understanding; a trust that is apparent.

"I hate you!" New York often tells Massachusetts, always with the furious expression that he wears frequently.

"I know," is nearly always the Masshole's reply. And yet, there is something about the way they sometimes speak with each other that carries respect. It goes past the dumb arguing of brothers; even past the confrontations of rivals.

They are brothers; they are good friends, though neither would admit it (unless they happened to be under the influence of ridiculously strong cough medicine).

Maybe the key thing is that they are equals, and regard each other as so. But whatever the reason…the two seem to be close.

* * *

Then, there are the siblings that almost seem to function as separate family units themselves.

"Harlan, stop smoking!" Virginia says worriedly, "Ian, have you taken your diabetes medication today?"

Kentucky drops his cigarette, grinding it out with an angry pout on his face. West Virginia looks at Virginia bashfully.

"Ah…no…I forgot, y'see…" He says, his face and manner sincere.

In the midst of this, D.C. is drafting something on a piece of paper. As he writes, he murmurs to himself in a rather self-important voice, "My fellow Americans…hm, what do I say for a blog…?"

"Ian, you really need to take better care of yourself—Harlan!" Virginia has spied Kentucky, who is lighting a cigarette once more. "Harlan, you're going to ruin your lungs and get cancer!"

"Am not!" Kentucky retorts, trying to blow smoke rings. It is possible that he would have succeeded if not for the boy who snuck up behind him. Actually, man is more accurate a term; he is broad-shouldered, and looks remarkably like America without a cowlick to represent Nantucket. He frowns, plucking the cigarette from Kentucky's lips.

"That was my last one!" Kentucky says, indignant. He tries to make a grab for it, but Maryland is too quick.

Maryland grins, stuffing the cigarette in the pocket of his lab coat. "Good."

And he strides over to West Virginia, putting his hand on the younger boy's shoulder. He looks into the younger boy's eyes, his expression serious (for once). "Ian, you seriously need to start taking your meds. I have idiots like him—" Maryland jerked his head toward Kentucky. "—to deal with, and you're worrying Avery. Now, take them, please."

He shoved a bottle of medication into West Virginia's hand, and grinned at Virginia.

"Hey, Avery," he said, his dark blue eyes sparkling with mirth. "Hero Junior's arrived, am I right?"

But before Virginia can do so much as give an amused sigh, she spots Harlan, having found another pack of cigarettes, lighting up again. Her mommy senses instantly activate, and she crosses the room to grab the pack away from Kentucky.

"It's extremely uncouth to light cigarettes in the house, nonetheless at all!" D.C. interjects, his voice disapproving as Virginia begins to lecture Kentucky.

And for a moment, they seem to be the picture of a family.

* * *

On the flip side, there are sometimes siblings that act like they hate each other—sometimes, it's only one sibling who acts as though he hates the other.

Like Delaware and Pennsylvania, in fact.

Pennsylvania often thinks back to the day Delaware left him, you know. He regards the memory with an equal amount of sorrow and fondness; Delaware had grown up and changed so drastically from the small, dependent boy that used to follow Pennsylvania around since that day.

Pennsylvania is most accurately described as a simple person. This is not to say that he is stupid, but that he is pure. He actively pursues Delaware, yes, but it is clinging to some nearly-lost hope that Delaware will decide to reconcile.

He remembers the small boy, wide-eyed and hurrying after him: _"Wait, Milton!"_

And Pennsylvania watches the current Delaware, the boy he calls Robin sometimes. He watches him, sad-eyed, and often goes up to hug the boy with a bright smile. The words he says eclipse the words he means, though.

"_Robin~! What's up, Robin?" _

"_GET THE HELL OFF!"_

"_Aw, but why? I love you, Robin!"_

"_I hate you! Get the hell off!"_

But Pennsylvania knows that there's something else he wants to say to Delaware; something that he would say with a trace of sorrow.

When Pennsylvania remembers the helpless, dependent boy who followed him around, always needing him or wanting him, he does think fondly. He remembers, and loves, that boy.

Then, Pennsylvania comes face-to-face with the person that Delaware is now. The strong, opinionated boy who says he hates him. The modern Delaware is an independent boy with stubborn brown eyes that often convince Pennsylvania that his words are truth.

He's come a long way, Pennsylvania knows, and he can't help but be happy for Robin.

"_Robin…Harrison. I'm proud of you,"_ is what Pennsylvania imagines saying, smiling sadly, and he imagines Delaware smiling in return. For a moment, Pennsylvania imagines reaching out to hug his little brother, the boy who was almost his son, and then the thought is gone as Pennsylvania crashes back to reality.

He knew that Delaware wouldn't smile in reaction, much less allow Pennsylvania to hug him. But Pennsylvania can also hope, and he also knows that he'll love Robin no matter what.

He just hopes that one day, he'll receive a smile in return.

* * *

And like all proper families, there are the occasional murder attempts.

Michigan, known amongst the states for his foul temper and constant scowling, is usually the one dealing out these threats. Especially when it comes to Ohio, his bitter rival whom he had fought an entire war against. And this war was known (or at least, remembered as) something completely ridiculous and fueled by the fact that the two states are stubborn as hell.

"Hey, Michigan," Ohio says slyly as Michigan is doing the dishes, "anything new?"

"Go the hell away," Michigan comments pleasantly, scrubbing the dish he is washing more violently than before Ohio had entered the room.

"Aw, you're such a prick," Ohio sighs dramatically, "why must you always be so cruel to the awesome me?"

"AWESOME, MY ASS!" Michigan yells, slamming the dish down into the drain board so hard that Salem, Cape Cod's cat, jumps up from where she was sitting two floors above. It is a miracle that the dish survived that.

"Your ass? No, that isn't awesome," Ohio notes, "Especially when you act like you always have something stuck up it."

"THAT'S IT, I AM EFFING KILLING YOU!" Michigan roars, picking up a knife from the sink. Before he can do anything, He is suddenly grabbed from behind by a smaller boy with reddish-brown hair, deep blue eyes, and glasses- Minnesota.

"Will! Don't do it, eh!" he cries, his voice desperate. "Murder is a felony, doncha know! And with the economy the way it is, I can't afford to pay that kind of bail! I don't even know if they offer bail for murder, eh!"

Seeing the desperation in his brother's eyes, Michigan drops the knife. "…Just go the hell away, Ohio."

"How about those Lions, then?" Ohio smirks.

"YOU ARE EFFING DEAD!"

* * *

And then, there were those who were made close due to circumstance and bound together by something far beyond their control.

An example of this is the relationship Washington and Alaska have formed.

You see, Washington had lobbied for Alaska's purchase, eager to prove himself after having split from Oregon. What Washington didn't expect was quite literally being named her caretaker.

"This is Juno!" America had said enthusiastically, oblivious of the true weight of adopting yet another child, stilling being in his 'MANIFEST DESTINY' phase. "We're gonna be calling her Alaska from now on, all right? You'll be caring for her!"

The self-proclaimed hero's eyes flashed as he offered his trademark grin, nudging the small girl towards Washington. Washington, a thin brunette with nervous eyes, surveyed her. There was something familiar about the girl, despite the fact that he had never seen her before.

Alaska was a small girl with large, sad-looking violet eyes. Her short brown hair framed her face and she wore a bow in it. She was wearing a light blue dress of an unfamiliar style, as well as a blue scarf. No, Washington had certainly not seen this girl before, but there was something about her that was undeniably familiar to Washington all the same.

It was, Washington surmised, that feel of sorrow the girl had about her. Washington knew of the look in the girl's eyes because he had worn that look himself…and that is why he had looked at America and nodded.

"All right," Washington had said quietly. "I'll take care of her."

And Juno, Alaska, the little Russian girl with sad eyes and a ribbon in her hair looked at Washington as he lowered himself to her height so that they were eye to eye.

"Hello," Washington said seriously, adjusting his glasses, "I'm Washington. I'm your new…um, your new big brother."

Alaska's eyes showed confusion, but she nodded.

"A-Ah…Privyet. M-My… name…Juno, I am called Juno," she said. Her small, quiet voice was heavy with a Russian accent.

"Oh, yeah!" America said happily. "I forgot to tell you. She's Ivan's kid; she doesn't speak much English! You've gotta teach her!"

And then, typically, America skipped off to do whatever neglectful nation-parents do.

Washington sighed, but didn't tear his eyes away from that of the smaller girl. He silently made the same promise he had made to Idaho the night he had left Oregon.

_I promise,_ Washington thought, _that I'll be the best big brother I can be. I promise that I'll protect you._

And Washington took Alaska's hand, tugging her towards the nearest table.

"Come on," he said. "I'm teaching you English!"

* * *

And then, there are the states who function like father and his two children.

"Maine, do me a favor and ask Texas to pick up Children's Tylenol. It's his turn to go shopping, right? The asshole'd never listen to me, he may as well hear it from you," Massachusetts said, sitting in a chair at Cape Cod's bedside, the latter of whom was suffering the effects of a hurricane.

"If he doesn't get it, I'll go out and get it myself," Maine replies, shoving his hands in the pockets of his red, plaid jacket as his green eyes look at Massachusetts. "But I don't think you give Texas enough credit, Bro…"

Massachusetts gives Maine a look from behind his glasses before saying, "This is _Texas_ we're talking about."

"…I'll go ask him," the younger brunette says shortly, exiting the room and going downstairs.

"…How're you doing?" Massachusetts asks, turning his attention back to Cape Cod.

"My head hurts…" she whimpers, pulling the covers over her blonde head a bit. The rain pours down outside, and Massachusetts begins to hope that Texas gets the medicine soon, for a number of reasons- the last thing he wants is Maine to venture out in this.

"You should try and sleep this off," Massachusetts says, "But we'll get you medicine soon, alright?"

"I can't sleep…"

"What if I read you a story?" Massachusetts suggests.

"Okay…you pick it," Cape Cod says, grabbing the stuffed lobster Maine had given her as a birthday present many years ago. She named him 'Ben' because, as she told Massachusetts, 'Ben is always a crab, and lobsters are crabs.' And the Masshole couldn't help but be amused.

Massachusetts nods and goes over the bookshelf, picking out the first book he could grab. He sits back down in his chair and reads the story aloud, even as Maine comes back in the room. He has a hard time reading it, because his own fever was making his vision blur occasionally. When he finishes, he closes the book and sets it down, and Cape Cod is asleep.

"Texas said he'd get it," Maine says quietly, "And Bro, you look kinda pale yourself. You should get some rest."

"I'm fine." Massachusetts folds his arms. "Don't worry about me, I'm not important right now."

Maine frowns a bit, putting his hand on the older boy's forehead. "You have a fever. Go lay down, I'll stay here with Hannah."

"Simon, I'm fine. Really," Massachusetts protests, "Please."

"No," Maine says. There's a certain sternness in his voice that isn't usually present, as he looks at his older brother, the man who raised him. "You need to take care of yourself. And if you won't do it for you, do it for Hannah and I. Because we care about you, and that's what we want you to do right now."

Massachusetts blinked, surprised at Maine's words. After several moments he nods, and stands up. "…Thank you, Simon."

* * *

**A/N: **Yo, this be Reaper. The reason this chapter is so late is for a variety of reasons, most of which being my fault. So, I'm really sorry, you guys. Jabberwock wrote most of this.

A quick note, the hurricane we refer to in there is Hurricane Earl, which did actually hit Cape Cod and parts of Massachusetts. West Virginia's diabetes was based on the fact that West Virginia has the highest percentage of people living with it.

Next chapter will be out soon, I promise.

**A/N (NUMBER TWO): **Hey, it's Jabberwock! Despite what Reaper may say, she did pull her weight in this chapter, and it's a pretty huge one. I'd like to note that NY, MA, AK, and HI are now over a year old, and that I'm very upset that NY's and MA's little anecdote didn't turn out too well. Oh, and D.C. does in fact have a blog, and all of the states shall post on it at some point! The link is currently set to our homepage on our profile, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

WE DO NOT OWN.

AND REVIEWS MAKE US HAPPYYYYYY.**  
**


	5. A Day in the Life of New Mexico

**Disclaimer:** We don't own Hetalia. Only the states. New Mexico, Nevada, and Arizona (even if you didn't get to see much of him) belong to my little brother, California, Georgia, and New Hampshire belong to Jabberwock, and the rest are mine. Tennessee belongs to our other friend.

* * *

It was nine in the morning when New Mexico unceremoniously rolled out of bed. Literally. And he hit the ground with a rather loud _thud_ that could probably be heard on the floor below. With a groan, he sat himself up and rubbed his eyes a, trying to wake himself up. Pale sunlight steamed through his bedroom window, and he began to wonder what sort of chaos was going to happen that day. Because let's face it, with fifty-something people, an alien, Florida's pet alligator that lived in the upstairs bathroom, and God knows what else in one house, things could get pretty chaotic even before breakfast.

New Mexico groggily pulled on a black "Roswell Alien Watch" T-shirt and a pair of jeans. When he had finished putting his shirt on, something crawled out from under his desk. It was green, slimy, and probably not visually appealing to anyone else.

"Hola, Eguardo!" New Mexico smiled cheerily, picking up his pet alien and putting it on his head. You see, New Mexico had this…odd belief that aliens and other paranormal (not ghosts, mind you. That was Massachusetts' thing) creatures existed, and was almost always seen with a slimy alien named Eguardo on his head as he went about his business. Most states thought it was either creepy or disgusting. Alaska found it adorable.

Eguardo made some sort of gurgling noise that was either endearing or annoying.

New Mexico sighed, "Yeah, I know he's a twerp, but what are you going to do?"

New Mexico walked out of his room, closing the door behind him. Just as he was about to comment how unusually quiet things were, he heard a scream that sounded like an axe murderer had decided to hack off someone's arm coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall, shattering any peace and quiet that the morning had left.

California came running out of the bathroom so fast, New Mexico had to blink a few times to make sure it was her. All he saw was a streak of blonde hair and flailing arms, and blonde hair accounted for many of the states (and America) in the house.

"Candice! What happened?" New Mexico asked, catching his sister's arm. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?"

"It's like, horrible, Arizona!" California wailed.

"…New Mexico," New Mexico sighed. "Not Arizona."

"There's like, a _New_ Mexico? Seriously? When did that like, happen! Is there a New Spain, too?" California looked astonished, forgetting how freaked out she was moments ago. "How about a New Russia?"

"Nevermind. Just…nevermind." New Mexico sighed after a long pause. "Just tell me what happened."

"Oh, that." California replied, and then her voice went back to being whiney. "It's like, totally horrible!"

New Mexico went past her and decided to see what was going on for himself, bracing himself for what he was about to see as California was screaming at him not to do it in the background ("New Russia! Like, don't be a hero!").

_It finally happened, Michigan killed Ohio and his dead body is in there._ New Mexico thought, nearing the bathroom. _Or America OD'd on hamburgers and had a heart attack and is lying dead in there. Or someone tripped on the bathtub and smashed their head, or maybe she walked in on someone taking a shower…_

Taking a deep breath, New Mexico pushed the door open, closing his eyes. When he opened them and exhaled, he saw…the same white toilet, the same white tile floors, the same blue walls, and the same white bathtub. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Florida's alligator wasn't even around; Fluffy was probably off terrorizing Georgia for calling his master "America's You-Know-What" again.

"Candice, I don't see anything!" New Mexico called over his shoulder.

California weakly came over and hid behind her older brother as she weakly pointed to the wall opposite from where they were standing. "It's like, on the wall!"

New Mexico ventured over to said wall, and leaned in closely. There, he saw it. It was hideous, ugly, hairy, had multiple legs and eyes, and ate dead bugs.

It was a spider.

Who was the size of a grain of sand.

"…You're kidding."

"LIKE, NO!"

Sighing for at least the third time that morning, New Mexico grabbed a tissue from the dispenser, killed the spider, and threw the murderous piece of paper in the garbage by the sink.

"You're like, such a totally brave hero!" California cried. "Now I can like, take a shower so my hair smells like strawberries and mountain breezes!"

"…You do that, Candice. You do that."

* * *

After the spider who was terrorizing the bathroom had been laid to rest and California was busy making herself smell like strawberries and mountain breezes, New Mexico went to the kitchen to make himself breakfast. He had finished pouring the milk in his cereal when Nevada casually strolled in.

"Watcha doin'?"

"Making breakfast."

"For me? Thanks!" Nevada smiled, took New Mexico's cereal before he could do anything, and walked out.

"Really? Really?" New Mexico put his head down on the counter as Nevada yelled at him from the other room.

"You jerk, this is whole milk! Who puts that in their cereal?"

And it was at that moment that Utah flounced in.

Now, Utah, as everyone might've guessed, did not have the greatest reputation amongst the states. It probably had to do with the fact that she had a tendency to forcibly drag her victi- er, _siblings_, off to church with her for eighteen hours and constantly ask states (namely the ones who couldn't care much less about religion, like New England) to join the Mormons.

For example, the other day, Massachusetts was reading Cape Cod a book on the couch, and he didn't notice Utah sit down next to him until she started pull on his hair curl (that represents Cape Cod) and say his name. "Linuuuuuuuuuuuus~"

The Masshole sighed. "Yes, Utah?"

"Join the Mormons?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"_No."_

"…Please?"

So on and so forth until she decided that annoying Vermont and New Hampshire was a much better plan (and got similar results, only with much more profanity on New Hampshire's part).

Moving on, Utah was one of Mexico's two daughters…and Mexico still doesn't know what happened. She had long, black hair that went past her shoulders, and lighter skin in comparison to New Mexico, who looked Hispanic, and wore a red tank top and a long, white, flowing skirt.

"New Mexico!" She greeted in her sing-song voice. "Join the-"

"No."

Utah pouted a bit, then took the cereal bowl New Mexico had just finished making for himself. She ate a spoonful of Captain Crunch before she spoke again, "Have you seen Nevada?"

"Yeah, he just stole my cereal. Why?"

"He stole your cereal! That wasn't very nice!" Utah cried, eating another spoonful (causing New Mexico to slap his forehead). "And because I've decided that he's coming with me to church today. I read this thing on the internet yesterday that says he's 'Sin City'! We can't have that!"

"…You _just_ found out that he's Sin City?" New Mexico blinked.

Now, Nevada wasn't known for being the poster child for abstinence. Actually, he had one girlfriend for every day of the week, probably owed more money than you can count, and was somehow raised under Utah when they were younger. Mind you, Nevada wasn't a _bad_ person- he just had questionable morals, lived vicariously, and wasn't known for being the nicest man on the face of the planet. But when push came to shove, the guy did separate from Utah just to fight for the Union in the Civil War- which earned him props.

"Yes!" Utah replied. "Where is he?"

New Mexico smiled. _Revenge._

He pointed over to the living room, where Nevada was unsuspectingly eating his stolen sugary cereal. "Right there, Lacey."

Utah smiled, finished her cereal that previously belonged to New Mexico, and set the bowl down. "Thank you!" She said, and then skipped over to Nevada. Before the poor guy even knew what was going on, she grabbed on to his wrist and had dragged him out the door, living the lonely (and empty) cereal bowl behind.

New Mexico walked over, picking up the cereal bowl. The green alien on his head made some sort of screeching sound and was rather annoyed that the authoress kept forgetting to include him.

"That's true, Nevada is a twerp. You like calling him that."

It was at that moment that he noticed Texas walking by with a large, empty box.

"Hey, Texas, what's with the box?"

"Hm?" the Texas looked at New Mexico. "Oh, this? I'm cleanin' out my closet. Oklahoma keeps naggin' me about what a fire hazard it is and that I probably have the dead bodies of my chainsaw massacre victims in there or something like that. Best give her one less thing to nag me over, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so- wait, so that was based on a _true story?"_ New Mexico cried, looking visibly alarmed. Now that he thought of it, Texas' chainsaw, which currently resided in the shed, did have this reddish stuff on it…but Texas said that was from cutting down a tree for Christmas a while back.

"Of course it wasn't! If I was going to go about murderin' people, I wouldn't use a chainsaw. Too messy and leaves too much evidence. And I wouldn't ruin a perfectly good chainsaw like that." Texas said, rather matter-of-factly. For someone who had an intelligence level that the northern states seemed to love to mock, he seemed to know a lot about crime scenes.

"And you know this…how?"

"Oh, I watch CSI sometimes. And horror movies. You don't think I never saw the chainsaw massacre movie, did you?" Texas asked. "Anyways, I'd better get stated. Don't remember the last time I cleaned that thing out…"

When Texas had gone upstairs and was out of earshot, New Mexico stood there and blinked.

"…I have the _weirdest_ siblings ever."

* * *

Later that evening, DC decided that there was to be another meeting of the states, and Rhode Island was not allowed to point out Texas' intelligence (or lack thereof). So, the states, although grumpily, sat around the meeting room table as DC paced the room and made some sort of pompous speech as only a pint-sized politician could.

Utah and Nevada were back from church at this point, and Nevada was seated next to New Mexico, whom had Arizona on his other side.

"How'd you survive church, Quinton?" New Mexico blinked, astonished at the fact that Nevada was still breathing. "I could've sworn you would have burst into flame the second you step foot in there."

Nevada rolled his eyes, but grinned. "Same way I'm going to survive this meeting."

Before New Mexico had time to ask questions, Nevada pulled a Playboy magazine out from under his shirt and grinned like the pervert he was. "See, I think ahead."

"_As_ I was saying," DC said pointedly, glaring at Nevada as he spoke (the latter of whom just gave him a thumbs-up before attending to his dirty magazine), "I think the best solution to our economic crisis is- what smells like strawberries and mountain breezes?"

"Oh, that's like, totally me!" California grinned and waved happily, taking her iPod headphones out of her ears as she waved happily. "You like it~? This is my favorite shampoo!"

"Oh, yes, well, it smells delightful- wait, back on topic!"

"What kind of shampoo do you use?" Tennessee asked from across the table. The redhead was obviously bored, and as soon as the opportunity arose to change the topic, she took it.

"The like, good kind!" California smiled.

"…Gee, if I only knew," Tennessee blinked. "Because I use the…_super_ kind."

"LIKE, OHMAHGOSH, NO WAY! WHAT DOES YOURS SMELL LIKE?" California gasped. "WE NEED TO LIKE, SHARE SHAMPOO SECRETS."

"Lavender," Tennessee grinned.

"…Oh. _My. God._ You and I like, totes need to hang out sometime! And we can take Eliza, too!" California motioned to Vermont, who was seated several seats away from her and next to New Hampshire. Vermont was a tomboy, keeping her white-ish hair almost boy-short and wearing boy's clothing. In fact, Vermont had always worn boy's clothing, even when she was younger- God knows how she got away with it with France for a father. That day, she happened to be wearing a dark green sweater and pair of black snow pants- not very fashionable.

"You're not taking me anywhere," Vermont said tonelessly, rolling her gray eyes.

"…Hey, 'Liza, what kind of shampoo do you use?" New Hampshire asked, turning to her. "Mine's just this dandruff stuff and doesn't smell like much of anything. Is it a girl thing to like smelly shampoos?"

Vermont stared at New Hampshire for a long time, with a look that said, _Are you high?_

"…It smells like lilac, I think."

And then DC proceed to hit his head against the wall.

New Mexico smiled. It was just another average day.

* * *

**A/N:** Hey guys, Reaper here! This update is so late because real life caught up with me, but the next update is going to be a joint effort on Jabberwock and I's part, so it should be up a lot faster. Get ready for the Halloween special! And yes, I am planning on writing _Texas' Closet Cleaning_.

This A/N is getting too long as it is, but there's something I need to address- please don't ask us to include your state in the next chapter! We have characters for all 50 and the Canadians planned out, we promise, and it only makes us feel bad when we can't think of anything to do with the one you requested.

Review, please?


	6. Thanksgiving, Part 1

Disclaimer: So, like, we don't own APH. Still. What else is new?

* * *

"So guys, we totally have to plan the awesomest Thanksgiving _ever_! I invited Iggy over, so we totally have to impress him!" America rambled, waving his arms enthusiastically and grinning like a New York in Starbucksland. "We have to convince him that our American holidays are the best! Not stupid British holidays, like Kwanza!"

"Dad, Kwanza isn't British," Massachusetts rolled his eyes. "If you're going to insult Grandpa, at least get your facts straight."

"…Okay, then it's better than his annual 'Brush your Teeth Day!' Or whatever those stupid Brits have!"

"…We have that, too," Connecticut said quietly, but was promptly ignored. He sighed, completely used to this, and resumed reading his copy of _Les Miserables. _

"What about Uncle Matthew?" Alaska asked in her shy, quiet voice.

"HOLY- YOU HAVE AN UNCLE?" America cried, before recognition hit him like a sack of bricks. "OH, YEAH, MY LESS-THAN-AWESOME CLONE-THING WHO THINKS CURLING IS A REAL SPORT!"

"He has his own Thanksgiving," Vermont said flatly. She didn't notice the fact that New Hampshire was making faces at her from behind. When she did notice, she shoved his arm. He whined, in over-dramatic pain before falling on to the floor and winking suggestively at Texas.

Texas turned red, then green, then promptly left the room muttering about a "Goddamn bisexual Yank rapist".

"Well, Matty does Thanksgiving on the wrong day!" America said, doing a dismissive hand gesture. "He should learn how to read a calendar!"

The states knew better than to actually give America the dignity of responding to that.

"Well, like, where are we getting the food catered from?" California asked, concerned, braiding a terrified-looking Alaska's hair. "Like, I totally need to watch my figure!"

"You look effing anorexic," New Hampshire commented from his position on the floor. The idiot was too lazy to get up, and kept looking expectantly at Vermont, like she was supposed to pick him up or something.

"AW, YOU'RE SO SWEET! THANK YOU!" California squealed. New Hampshire smacked his forehead.

And then, America responded. It was a terrifying response; it was one that the states had come to dread.

"I thought we'd cook! I mean, we have like, twenty girls, right? And you guys are good at cooking! You're gonna cook, and we'll blow England out of the water! And that Matty guy, too!"

"Frankly, Dad, Salem could cook better than England," Massachusetts commented, referring to Cape Cod's rather, er, affectionate, black cat. Said black cat jumped on the blonde Masshole's lap, and said Masshole sighed.

"Well," America said brightly, "We'll have to learn! How hard could cooking be?"

* * *

It was hard. _very_ hard. Especially given that, despite America's outdated belief that all women could cook, most of the girl states only had limited cooking ability, which hardly went beyond making instant noodles and cold cereal and milk.

Virginia, being one of the only ones with _actual _cooking abilities (it happens when you're the "soccer mom" of the states), spent all of her time rushing around, keeping everyone from fighting, adding random ingredients to the proper bowl, confiscating Kentucky's cigarettes, and making sure West Virginia took his meds. To put it lightly, the poor girl was beyond stressed.

However, there were still many problems, despite Virginia's best efforts. One such problem being the fact that America had paired Georgia with Florida.

To understand why Georgia and Florida hated each other, you need to understand why Georgia was born to begin with. Back before cable TV and when powdered wigs were perfectly acceptable fashion statements, Florida still lived with her papa, Spain. But England didn't like the fact that Spain was so close to America. So, he made America get busy, and nine months later, Georgia came to be. Her main job? Kick the crap out of Spain whenever he got his tomato-y ass too close. Unfortunately, kicking the crap out of Spain meant kicking the crap out of Florida, her future sister- who had a penchant for vicious alligators named "Fluffy".

"That just ain't sanitary!" Georgia protested as she eyed Fluffy, who was sitting on the counter next to the ingredients for the stuffing, distastefully. Fluffy glared right back, as best an alligator could glare.

"Fluffy is perfectly sanitary!" Florida, a girl with green eyes who wore her long, dark red hair into a ponytail, replied, forcing a smile. "More than you are, anyway."

"For one, I don't carry salmonella," Georgia said angrily. Her short, wavy red hair seemed to bounce as she glanced mistrustfully at Fluffy once more. "For another, I shower regularly! If I had a dog as ugly as you, I'd shave his butt and make him walk backwards!"

"…_What?_" Florida blinked.

"Ya heard me!" Georgia said irately. She beat her eggs with an unnatural fury, giving Fluffy the evil eye.

"Oh, go make a peach cobbler," Florida rolled her eyes, petting Fluffy's head.

Georgia glared. "Peaches ain't in season, dumbass!"

"Oranges are so much better, anyway," Florida said, rather matter-of-factly. "Or tomatoes, but that's Papa's thing."

"DID YOU JUST INSULT MY PEACHES? YOU'RE WORSE THAN A FRIGGING YANKEE!"

If only this were the only flaw with America's cooking arrangements. For one, he had actually assigned California to do something other than preen herself.

"Like, I'm not touching that raw meat! The only raw meat I like is sushi!" Her eyes widened in delight. "Like, ohmagawd, that's it! Let's have sushi! Wait…that is meat, right?"

"How could America put me in the same kitchen with her?" Wyoming gestured angrily at California. "Not all girls like to cook, and not all girls are like _THAT_!"

"Well, like, you could be if your hair smelled like strawberries and mountain breezes!"

Montana rolled her eyes. "Like you'd know what a mountain breeze smelled like through all of Los Angeles' pollution!"

"Um, yeah, I do, my hair minus the strawberries. Duh!"

You can only imagine how much restraint it took to not slap the damn blonde.

Also attempting to cook in the kitchen, were Tennessee and South Carolina. Now, South Carolina wasn't known for being the most friendly girl in the universe. Actually, she was quite the opposite. South Carolina wasn't evil, per say, but she certainly had a temper, almost always scowled, and was arguably the toughest state in the household. Even Texas knew the steer clear of her on her bad days/special time of month. As Ohio would put it, "She was like Michigan, only with boobs."

"We should just have a barbeque," Tennessee pouted, stirring whatever it was she was supposed to be making. "It'd be much easier. Hey, can you pass me the butter?"

South Carolina grumbled something and tossed the butter at Tennessee, hitting the orange-haired girl in the head.

"Hey, watch it! You got butter in my freakin' hair!" Tennessee cried.

"We should just get the guys in here!" Wyoming complained, looking quite fed-up with her cookie batter. "I didn't fight over 100 years for _this!"_

Virginia, who had been patiently attending to the turkey, finally snapped. And when she did, everyone shut up, because it took _a lot_ to push patient, soccer mom Virginia over the edge.

"Everyone, be quiet!" Virginia cried. "I'm sick of everyone fighting! Now, go grab a guy, drag their butts in here, and force them to help!"

The girl states didn't waste any time setting out to drag in the states with y-chromosomes at Virginia's request (and honestly, you knew crap was about to go down if even _Virginia_ was pissed). Virginia immediately took Maryland, who was minding his own business in the living room, by the arm and pulled him into the kitchen before he had time to question what was going on, then went to go find Kentucky and West Virginia.

Florida, in the meantime, went off to go find New York. After not finding him in his room, she found him in the upstairs TV room with the door shut. When she opened the door to it, New York was curled up on the couch, still wearing his Mets pajamas, tearing up and hugging himself. There was an empty DVD box for the _RENT_ movie on the coffee table.

"Hey, Ben!" Florida smiled cheerfully. She had inherited Spain's inability to read the atmosphere, apparently. "What are you doing?"

"NOTHING, CASEY!" New York cried quickly, scrambling up to cover the television screen.

"Nothing? Okay, then!" Florida grinned, grabbed New York's arm, and pulled him towards the door.

"What the hell?" New York sputtered.

"You're helping me cook!" Florida explained happily.

"…Fml." New York said miserably.

* * *

Louisiana was busy getting to second base with faceless girl number twenty-seven when Mississippi barged in, more than a little annoyance showing in her blue-green eyes. Said faceless girl squealed and dove under Louisiana's covers as the state pouted.

He whined loudly, "I was in the middle of something, _cher_!"

"There will be more where she came from later!" Mississippi said impatiently. "We need help cooking!"

"…Give me an hour so I can finish here?" Louisiana asked sheepishly.

"Ten minutes, and you'd better wash up afterwards!" Mississippi sighed, obviously angered. You'd expect her to be horrified or at least a little fazed by walking in on Louisiana and one of his many girlfriends, but that was such a commonplace in the Jones household, it was a miracle _not_ to walk in on Louisiana doing something risqué. Being raised by both France _and_ Spain at various points in his life certainly left their mark on Louisiana, and it was questionable as to which of those marks were good ones.

With that and a slight huff, Mississippi stormed out in search of her little brother. She found him sitting on one of the many couches, minding his own business, much like Maryland had innocently been doing.

Alabama and Mississippi looked rather different, so it was hard to even tell that they were siblings, sometimes. But with France as a father, you never know what the gene pool will throw at you. Mississippi had long, wavy, dirty-blonde hair that she wore in a ponytail, and blue-green eyes. Alabama was a brunette boy with stubborn blue eyes and freckles.

"Hey, sis," Alabama said, blinking.

"You're helping me in the kitchen," Mississippi said bluntly, then grudgingly added, "please."

"Wha'? Why am I doin' that?" Alabama asked, folding his arms. "Didn't America ask ya'll to do it?"

"And I'm asking _you_ to do it. Come on, I'm your older sister! And besides," Mississippi gave a mischievous smile and raised her eyebrows raised a bit suggestively, "Do you really want to leave me _all alone_ in the kitchen with _Louisiana?"_

Oh, that got Alabama's attention.

"Like _hell_ I'd leave you all alone in the kitchen with that damn perverted ladies' man!" Alabama replied angrily, getting up and folding his arms. "…Just don't expect me to be too useful in the kitchen. Unless you want me there to yell a' Louisiana, which I can do."

"Oh, so you're going to sit back and let _him_ help me?" Mississippi mused.

"…Just tell me what to do an' I'll try."

"Aw, thanks for offering, baby bro!"

* * *

After the lady states had finished successfully dragging in a majority of the male states and restoring the kitchen's balance of testosterone so it wasn't overwhelmed by estrogen anymore, Virginia was hoping things would get better, and they'd be able to finish the Thanksgiving preparations before New Year's.

Sadly, the poor young lady was mistaken. You simply can't expect to have America's states in one kitchen and not expect arguments. Being the oldest of the Original Thirteen and the second oldest overall, you think she would have known this by now. Call it either wishful thinking or stress.

The chaos began as typically as you'd expect it to: Ohio opened his mouth when Michigan was in the premises. For some reason, and God knows why, Iowa thought it would be a smart idea to drag Michigan and Ohio in to help. And anyone with common sense would have told you that was like taking a bath in gasoline and then jumping into a campfire. In other words, stupid.

"You're doing that all wrong," Ohio commented, leaning over Michigan's shoulder. "I could do that so much better."

"I'M WASHING A GODDAMN FREAKING DISH!" Michigan yelled, his temper flaring. "PLEASE ENLIGHTEN ME AS TO HOW I COULD POSSIBLY BE DOING THAT WRONG."

"You're simply not doing it awesomely enough. And that soap smells like crap. What is that, lemon?" Ohio asked, grimacing.

Now, it should be noted that Ohio didn't go out of his way to annoy or pick on anyone else. He just loved to annoy Michigan at any opportunity he got, even if it was dangerous. It was like sticking your hand in a piranha tank just to annoy the thing. It's fun, dangerous, and eventually, your stupidity is going to come back to bite your hand, or in Ohio's case, kick your ass.

"Oh, you'd know what crap smells like, considering that's what you are," Michigan replied coolly, regaining himself.

"That insult effing sucks," Ohio raised an eyebrow. "Try again."

Before Michigan even got the chance to, he felt himself being grabbed from behind by a smaller boy. He looked over his shoulder and said, "The hell, Luke, I didn't even threaten any kind of felony- wait, you're not Minnesota."

The boy who had grabbed Michigan had brown hair and blue eyes, and he shared a tiny bit of a resemblance to Minnesota. "Minnesota's got a cold, so he didn't want to get his germs all over the food. So he asked me to stop murder attempts because North doesn't want to listen to anything he says."

"I didn't even threaten murder this time!" Michigan said. "Kid, you were too early. And who are you?"

"South Dakota!" the boy gave an irritated sigh.

"…Right. Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to go rid the world of assholes," Michigan replied after an awkward pause, glaring daggers at Ohio, who grinned and waved.

"SO YOU _WERE_ GOING TO COMMITT A FELONY!"

And it was about this time that Pennsylvania made a sound that sounded like he was disappointed. He had been given the very simple task of making the instant rolls, where all you had to do was stick the dough in the oven. He had left the dough in the oven a bit too long, and now the rolls resembled hockey pucks- only the pucks looked slightly more edible.

"The hell did you do?" Delaware demanded, raising an eyebrow as he peered into the oven. The smell of hockey puck rolls floated through the kitchen, and it wasn't exactly the most pleasant scent in the world.

Pennsylvania laughed a bit dismissively and smiled brightly at the smaller state. "Don't worry, Robin, they're not too burnt!"

"…They look like hockey pucks," Delaware replied flatly. "And my name is Harrison, idiot! H-A-R-R-I-S-O-N! What is so hard about that?"

"Nothing, but I'm allowed to give my little bro a nickname, right?" Pennsylvania asked, offering a small smile.

"NO. Get my name right, Goddammit!"

As you could imagine, the room was rather chaotic at this point, with Michigan and Ohio fighting as South Dakota tried to hold Michigan back, Pennsylvania and his burned rolls, and other various food-related episodes. Louisiana, who had come back from his alone time with faceless girl number twenty-seven, was helping Mississippi cut vegetables while Alabama leaned against the wall with a rather annoyed face on. When Louisiana noticed the brunette boy wasn't looking, he sneakily put an arm around Mississippi.

"_Cher_~" he grinned.

Mississippi rolled her eyes and sighed, but Alabama had apparently noticed Louisiana's advances. He quickly grabbed a spatula from a nearby counter and smacked his arm with it. "Hands off!"

Truth to be told, Louisiana was not trying to be incestuous with Mississippi. They had lived together before, and "they" included Alabama as well. They were almost married. Alabama did not like that one bit. Although he was the younger sibling, he was still rather protective of Mississippi.

"_Mon fils_, that hurt!" Louisiana whined, a tad over-dramatically.

"I DON'T CARE. AND I'M NOT YOUR SON, OR WHATEVER THAT MEANT!" Alabama yelled, smacking Louisiana's arm with the spatula again.

Virginia, who was still trying to finish with the turkey, looked about ready to snap again. She turned to say something to Maryland, who was standing next to her. "It's okay, I'll take care of the turkey!" he said quickly, seeing that Virginia was clearly losing her patience by the second.

And then, in the midst of all this chaos, a lone, gray alien walked in.

"Tony?" South Dakota, who was still trying to hold back Michigan, asked. "What are you doing here?"

Tony said nothing, only walked over to Pennsylvania, pushed him away from the stove, took out the hockey puck rolls, and dumped the in the garbage. He then walked over to the fridge, pulled out more instant dough, put it on the pan, and stuck it back in the oven. Everyone quieted in amazement as he then walked over to a speechless Alabama and took away his spatula, whacked Louisiana with it himself, then put it back on the counter. The alien then proceeded to take out more food that had yet to be prepared from the fridge, and began to prepare it. One by one, the states took that as their hint to leave, leaving things in Tony's much more capable hands. What thirty-forty people couldn't handle, one alien accomplished in a single night.

And so, it was decided that from then on, Tony and Virginia would be in charge of holiday preparations.

* * *

**A/N:** Reaper here (again)! Sorry we never got to give you guys a Halloween chapter, we've both been busy with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and didn't get a chance. We decided to make it up to you guys with a two-part Thanksgiving special, and this chapter was a joint effort on our parts. Next part will hopefully be out before Thanksgiving.

Also, we'd like to give a special thanks to our friend who helped write this chapter! You might be seeing more of her in the future.

One last thing: **would you guys be interested if Jabberwock and I wrote a SERIOUS, multi-chapter Civil War fic with the states?** Please tell us in reviews!


	7. Thanksgiving, Part 2

Disclaimer: WE DON'T OWN. MOSTLY. I MEAN. WE OWN THE OCS, CONSIDERING THAT THEY'RE ORIGINAL. BUT WE DON'T OWN THE CONCEPT. OR AMERICA. OR CANADA. SO, DA.

* * *

The morning of Thanksgiving started off relatively well, considering the family we're talking about—that's to say, no one died. Well. Michigan probably had an elaborate (and rather cartoonish) murder plot figured out for Ohio, but he was too busy preparing for the annual Lions game to really follow through with it. Ah well, that's what Christmas was for.

Anyway, the earliest people up were Cape Cod and Long Island, and via the transitive property of small-children-waking-up-big-brothers-at-insane-hours, Massachusetts and New York. The two disgruntled teenagers were currently lounging on couches while the smaller children pointed excitedly at all of the giant floats on the screen. New York seemed particularly unimpressed, as seen by the rather attentive way he watched the parade make its way down the streets of Manhattan.

New York held his Starbucks cup up to his nose, inhaling the scent of coffee as his eyes closed in sheer bliss.

Massachusetts was watching this with quiet amusement, having no real interest in the giant, inflatable Pikachu floating down the streets of New York.

"…Ben, are you snorting your coffee?"

New York jumped, spilling the hot liquid all over himself.

"Mass!" He wailed in a quite unmanly fashion, making everyone question his already ambiguous sexuality. "The hell did you do that for?"

"I was just asking you a question. Not my fault you jumped up like that," Massachusetts shrugged nonchalantly as the small children sitting in front of the TV laughed at New York's dismay. "And from the angle I'm sitting at, it looked like you were snorting it."

"You're a jacka- jerk," New York glared daggers, but corrected his language when he remembered the small kids in the room. Now, it was true that they had heard words far worse than the one New York was about to use, but they didn't make it any better.

"I know," Massachusetts replied indifferently, getting up to go get himself a cup of coffee from the kitchen.

New York muttered something that was likely obscene under his breath as Cape Cod and Long Island continued to watch the parade. Long Island, a young boy with curly dark hair and wide brown eyes, smiled as he watched more giant floats pass by.

"Santa's coming!" Cape Cod said happily, after the announcer had so helpfully pointed out that Santa was making his way down the street. "Mass, it's Santa!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Massachusetts said, walking back into the room with his cup of coffee and sitting back down on the couch. He found it particularly amusing that New York seemed to lighten up when Santa appeared on the screen, smiling and waving at the crowd who were likely freezing their asses off in the cold November air.  
Long Island, however, did not seem too impressed.

"Johnny, what's wrong? It's Santa!" Cape Cod smiled brightly.

"…I'm Jewish, remember?" Long Island said, fingering the gold Jewish star that hung around his neck.

"…Oh."

There was an awkward silence after that.

* * *

At about noon, there was a knock on the door. Michigan, who was drinking a glass of orange soda in the kitchen, said, "I'll get it," and went to open the door. When he opened it, he blinked in surprise.

Standing at the door with an awkward, shy smile, stood a man about America's height. He was clad in a red sweatshirt and jeans, and would have been almost identical to America if not for the lighter shade of his blonde hair and blue-violet eyes framed with glasses.

Well, that, and the fact that he was holding a polar bear- which really wasn't something you saw every day.

"Oh, hey, Uncle Matt. Dad didn't say you were coming," Michigan said, taking a sip of his orange soda. "Come in, I guess."

"Hello, Will. I figured he wouldn't mention us coming," Canada gave a small sigh, but he was used to his brother's forgetfulness by now. "He called last night. Not all of your cousins wanted to come…something about British Columbia and Saskatchewan having a bet about something. So only a few are with me."

"That's alright," Michigan replied, stepping aside so Canada could come in. Though most of the states didn't know who the weird blonde guy who looked a lot like America except with common sense and a bear was, the northern states tended to recognize him—especially the ones who shared a common border with him.

Unfortunately, ignorance about America's brother still ran rampant in most of the states.

"OH MY GOD, DAD CLONED HIMSELF!" Nevada cried, looking up from his Playboy magazine at just the right moment. "AND HE GOT A BEAR!"

New Mexico whacked him over the back of the head, causing the younger state to whine loudly and over-dramatically as Canada slapped his forehead.

"Hey, Dad, did they actually remember us this time?" asked a young man. He had walked into the house just as Nevada has finished his whining. He bore a strong resemblance to Canada, though his hair was messier and his eyes were more of a blue-green. He donned a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey, making it easy for even the dumbest of states to guess who he was. "Though, it's depressing that they would forget the most awesome province you have."

"America forgot to tell them," Canada smiled sheepishly.

"Well, that's not surprising," Ontario commented, glancing around the room.

"Hey, Ontario." Michigan said, taking another sip of orange soda.

"'Sup?" The blonde boy, Ontario, smiled. "Happy American Thanksgiving, though you guys seriously need to learn how to read a calendar."

"James! Are you being stupid?" accused a feminine voice from outside the room. Within seconds, a young woman walked in. Her blonde hair was tied back in a high, tight ponytail, and her blue eyes held a gaze full of snobbish disapproval. She was clad in a rather flattering dark blue sweater, as well as a white skirt and boots.

Ontario didn't even bother to look over his shoulder at the young lady who had just walked in to know who it was—her French accent spoke for itself.

"Aw, wifey, you're so horrible to me, accusing me of being stupid before you even know what I'm doing. Really, is that very nice?" Ontario mused, now choosing to glance at Quebec. "You don't see me doing that."

"I am not your wife! Idiot," Quebec said disdainfully, muttering some insult in French. She rolled her eyes as Ontario opened his mouth once more.

"Anymore," Ontario corrected, grinning.

"I can't stand you!"

"Likewise, Frenchie."

Canada sighed—this sort of fighting amongst his children was all too common.

"Ontario, Quebec, please…not now," the Canadian man pleaded.

"Now look what you did, you went and made Dad all upset," Ontario folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "You had to go and antagonize me, didn't you?"

"You're both idiots!" cried a new voice. It came from a teenage boy who was standing behind Quebec. He looked younger than the other two, and had messy, dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He wore a red plaid jacket open over a black T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and boots. "Now just stop fighting before you go and prove you're more stupid than you already are!"

"I love you too, little brother," Ontario teased, smiling. "You're such a grumpy cowboy, aren't you, Kyle?"

"You're an idiot," said the third province, proving the theory that he was a grumpy cowboy.

"Alberta, don't make things worse…" Canada sighed once again. The fight between the three Canadian provinces, however, would have continued to escalate—that is, if a certain American hadn't burst through the door connecting the living room to the kitchen.

"HOLY CRAP, WHO CLONED ME!" The hero exclaimed as he made his rather dramatic (though wholly unsurprising for anyone who had known him for longer than five minutes) entrance.

Apparently, America had heard the states' latest gossip.

Canada only sighed again, hugging his bear rather tightly.

"I'm Canada, eh…." He said quietly, hoping that someone other than his provinces and Michigan would realize who he was.

All Canada received, however, was a blank stare from most parties in the room as the polar bear in his arms looked up at him. For once, Canada felt a surge of hope. Surely, his beloved pet, Kumafluffio, wouldn't forget him, right?

Kumajirou opened his mouth to speak, and Canada smiled, happy at finally being recogniz—

"….Who are you?" The white bear questioned lazily.

Ontario facepalmed.

However, as chaotic as things had started out, the Jones (and partially Williams) family had soon gravitated to their normal…ah, units. Virginia was issuing last-minute orders to Maryland, Kentucky, West Virginia, and even DC—and you knew that when even DC was obeying someone other than his boss' orders, it was definitely important.

Kumajiro and Tony had retired to the corner, and they seemed to be…conversing, in some odd alien-to-bear manner. More and more states were coming downstairs, mingling with the three of their cousins that were there.

Quebec's face lit up as Vermont descended the stairs. Quebec seemed to lose her normal snobbish air as she ran forward, embracing her sister in a hug.

"_Soeur_!" Quebec said, grinning. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

Vermont, a normally stone-faced, emotionless girl, offered a rare smile. She replied quickly in French. Delighted, Quebec linked arms with her sister, and soon the two were jabbering away in French while New Hampshire and Ontario stared after the pair, dumbfounded.

"…What in the hell…?" New Hampshire said, astounded at the fact that Vermont actually knew how to smile. Ontario seemed to be similarly dumbfounded, staring after the two girls chattering in animated French. While Vermont was still rather reserved, Quebec's cool demeanor had completely disappeared.

"..._women_," Ontario groaned. New Hampshire nodded, wondering exactly how to get Vermont to act slightly friendly. After a few moments of scrutinizing the baffling enigma that was the Frenchwomen, the two retired to watch football.

Meanwhile, America was complaining to Canada. While America spoke rather fast, Matthew was able to catch snippets of the conversation, and compromised in nodding every five words while his brother whined:

"Mattyyyy! I'm so pissed, because Iggy was supposed to come over, but then he had to go all British and cancel. It's totally unheroic! Dude, he's probably busy screwing France in the closet of the meeting room…."

Canada blinked, wide-eyed at the disturbing mental image—he actually wished to stay invisible forever, if only he could un-see that….

* * *

Soon, the final preparations had finished, and Tony, Virginia, and every state unlucky enough to catch Virginia's eyes had set the large table that America had once stolen from a conference room on a drunken dare with Prussia. It had occupied his massive dining room ever since—normally covered with three or four Stars and Stripes tablecloths that had been clumsily sown together. Today, however, one of the states had had the foresight to drape it in a much nicer, deep red tablecloth that was made up of a few tablecloths that had been carefully stitched together—and though no one took the credit, North Carolina (a very shy and quiet girl who had been one of the first to try and reconcile with the northern states after the Civil War) blushed when someone commented on the difference.

Spread out on the large table were massive quantities of food—including at least five turkeys—that actually looked halfway decent, thanks to the combined efforts of Tony and Virginia. As the states, provinces, and two countries seated themselves, Maryland, West Virginia, and a pissed-off looking Kentucky brought out more food as Virginia oversaw them sternly. Soon, all of the food was set out, and every person there was seated.

However, before the starving personifications could dig into the food, DC's pompous voice rang out:

"Before we eat, we should each say what we're thankful for," he said, smirking.

A loud, unanimous groan resounded through the room, but America smiled brightly.

"Great idea, Harvey!" The jubilant American (who had probably already snuck hamburgers an hour before) exclaimed.

And so, the hell of having food in front of you on Thanksgiving and not being able to eat began. It was torturous—especially since a good deal of the states actually decided to think about it seriously.

"I'm thankful for my family, I guess," New York said, sipping his coffee. He thought for a moment, and then added, "My_ real_ family. Not Jersey or the Netherlands. And coffee. I'm thankful for coffee."

At the other side of the table, New Jersey sighed quietly.

Massachusetts was next. He, thankfully, was short, sweet, and to the point.

"I'm thankful for _certain_ members of my family," he said, not wishing to elaborate, though it was slightly obvious that he was excluding most of the South.

And so on, and so forth. Most of the states, as well as the Canadians, said some variation of, "I'm thankful for most of my family."

When it got to Connecticut, he looked rather nervous. After all, it wasn't often that he was noticed by his family, let alone expected to talk—he was like Canada in that aspect.

"Um," Connecticut began nervously, "Well…I'm thankful, first of all, for my family…because without them, some of us wouldn't…you know, wouldn't be here today. Um. I'm also thankful for…well, the fact that my family was able to stop fighting with each other for five minutes and sit down for dinner…it's…nice, and—"

"…who the hell are you?" Nevada said impatiently. Then, suddenly, he grinned in a lecherous way that was extremely unsettling to anyone who had known him for over ten minutes. "…I'll tell you what I'm thankful for. Women! And gambling, but mostly women!"

The room was silent, and then New Hampshire said the wisest words of the evening:

"…Screw this. Let's eat."

And it was a very happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

* * *

**A/N: **Yo! Jabberwock here, and I'm sorry, because this chapter is SO DAMN LATE. BUT. As I write this, my lovely Reaper-chama is beginning the Christmas chapter, which will actually (read: hopefully) be on time. The reason this chapter is so late was a culmination of school, Model UN, more school, and real life basically being a pain in the ass. HOWEVER. We now have three fanfictions that are in the process of being planned, one of them a World War II-based fic through the eyes of our city-tans to appease you fans (if, you know, we have any…) who were disappointed be by the late-ness of this chapter. Anyway. So. If you're interested, we're also planning a (serious? –GASP-) Pokémon fic that will hopefully be written or at least planned soon, and the aforementioned Civil War fic with the state-tans that will be written and posted this summer. So, yeah, again, I apologize for the late-ness and general fail of this chapter (which, I forgot to mention, was co-written). Thanks for reading, and don't forget to review!


	8. Snow Day

Disclaimer: NOT MUCH HAS CHANGED SINCE LAST CHAPTER, WE STILL DON'T OWN ANYTHING BUT THE STATES.

**A/N: **This is a filler chapter as an apology for failing so bad with deadlines. THE CHRISTMAS CHAPTER IS STILL ON THE WAY, IT'S JUST THAT THINGS KINDA POPPED UP. So enjoy some sibling fluffiness! Also, this takes place after Thanksgiving and before Christmas.

* * *

As much as the states liked to act like they were mature, responsible adults, snow in the Jones household was a major big deal. Actually, when "scattered flurries across the evening hours" turned into "hugeass blizzard that'll dump at least a foot on you people, so hide yo kids and hide yo wife," it became an even bigger deal. Especially when it trapped you in a house with at least fifty other people and an alien you may or may not like.

Virginia sat by the TV, looking a bit stressed. She was wearing a sweater and nervously playing with a strand of her blonde hair. It was common knowledge that she had a bit of a fear of snow, and any amount of the stuff over four inches was enough to get her upset.

"I hate snow…" she muttered to herself, watching the man on the weather channel stand on the corner near the movie theater and explain why it was a bad idea to go traveling in the storm, as a strong gust of wind nearly sent him flying.

"What's wrong, Avery?" Maryland asked, sitting down next to her and handing her one of the two cups of hot chocolate he was holding. "Oh, you're freaking out about the snow, aren't you?"

Virginia nodded, taking the cup from him.

Maryland sighed. "Well, no one's driving in this. It's not like last time, when Nevada dragged New Mexico and Arizona to CVS in the middle of a snowstorm like this."

"I know, but…" Virginia sighed. "What if it knocks the power out? And I'll probably need to go out in this tomorrow, we need-"

"Just relax," Maryland cut her off. "And I'll go out in this tomorrow, not you."

Smiling gratefully, Virginia nodded again. "Thank you, Andrew."

* * *

However, not all states were freaked out by the snow. As you would probably expect, Alaska sat by the window, watching the snow with quiet enthusiasm. She was holding her doll that Ukraine had made her when she was very little, Sonya. Sonya was a worn, old doll that Virginia had to repair several times because her left arm kept falling off. Her dress, once a brighter shade of pink, was now faded so that the pink looked more like white.

Washington was sitting with her, sending glares every once in a while in the general direction of Oregon (who was minding his own business on the couch, reading Idaho some book about potatoes). He turned to Alaska after about fifteen minutes of this and said, "You like to watch the snow, huh?"

Alaska seemed a little startled by Washington suddenly speaking to her, but she turned on the chair she was sitting in to face him. She nodded, "Da…I was just thinking about something, as well."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Well..." Alaska looked down at Sonya. "…I was thinking about my brother…about when I used to go to church with him. One time, I went with him on Christmas, and it was snowing like this…and the church wasn't really insolated, so he let me wear his coat."

Washington smiled a bit, almost sadly. "You miss your brother, huh?"

"Da, but…" Alaska offered a shy, small smile. "I'm happy here, with you."

Washington blinked in surprise. A smile like that- even a small one- was rare from Alaska, who suffered from depression and low self-esteem from her state's high percentage of citizens suffering from them. Although she didn't talk about her own feelings much, it was quite obvious that she felt sad a lot of the time.

All he said after several minutes was, "…You are?"

Alaska nodded.

After several moments of awkward silence, Washington said, "…I'm glad I'm with you, too," and watched the snow with the adopted Russian girl with sad violet eyes.

* * *

Michigan was heating up leftover Chinese food in the kitchen when Minnesota walked in, looking a bit troubled by something.

"Will? Can I talk to you, eh?"

"Sure, kid. What's up?" Michigan asked, taking his shrimp fried rice out of the microwave and going over to the silverware drawer to find a spoon.

"Do you know if North Dakota's mad at me?"

"I don't talk to him much, why?" Michigan asked, looking through the drawer. "And where the hell are all the spoons?"

"Because he won't talk to me and has been avoiding me since Thanksgiving," Minnesota replied, leaning against the doorframe. "And I don't know where the spoons are, eh...should be where they always are, right?"

"You'd think they would be." Michigan gave a frustrated sigh and closed the drawer, opening the dishwasher in his search for the goddamn utensil. "North Dakota's at that age where he's going through puberty. I'd just blame it on hormones, don't look too deeply into it. Did you talk to Cole?"

"He won't tell me why, either, doncha know."

"Found it!" Michigan said proudly, taking a spoon out of the dishwasher. He smirked self-victoriously and put it by his leftovers. He took something off the counter and opened it as Minnesota watched on curiously.

"You will find great changes in life if you take the road less traveled by," Michigan said after several minutes. Minnesota opened his mouth to complement his older half-brother's deep, thoughtful phrase, when he continued, "And order takeout while you're at it. Your lucky numbers are 3, 7, 22, 78, and 98."

"Are you giving me advice from a fortune cookie, eh?" Minnesota asked, somewhat alarmed.

"No, I'm _reading_ a fortune cookie. What you do with it is your own business," Michigan replied, eating a spoonful of shrimp fried rice. "But seriously…it's just hormones or something like that. But I _do_ give the kid credit for keeping this up for a few weeks now."

The younger boy gave a small sigh, but Michigan ruffled his hair lightly. "Don't worry about it, kid. And just remember," he added seriously, kneeling a bit so he could be at eye-level with Minnesota. "Your lucky numbers are 3, 7, 22, 78, and 98."

Minnesota smiled and playfully shoved Michigan. "Thanks, Will."

"No problem. And if you with the lottery with those numbers, I had better get a thank-you note on nice paper."

* * *

California came flying down the stairs and about 90 miles per hour around dinnertime, looking more upset then when they had killed Jerry off on one of her favorite TV dramas. By the end of that week, everyone in the entire house - and several of the nations she was friends and chatted with on a regular basis on Facebook (read: Poland) - were all aware that Jerry had been shot by Bill on Christmas weekend in the shed because he had a fling with Deborah.

"OHMAHGAWD. GUYS, I'M GONNA DIE," California cried as she got to the end of the stairwell. Her small dog, Hollywood, who resided in her purse, whined for an added effect.

"Did they kill Jerry again?" Vermont asked in a bored tone from the couch, skimming the dials for something that wasn't about ice road trucking, dog shows, or dysfunctional families that put hers to shame.

"NO. But actually, on that same show, they killed off Stacey!" California wailed. As New Mexico walked past with a hot bowl of soup, she grabbed his shoulders and said, NEW RUSSIA, ISN'T IT HORRIBLE?"

"…Totally!" New Mexico said after a few seconds, knowing better than to ask questions. He feigned interest and nodded enthusiastically so that California would let him attend to whatever it was he was going to do - which was more likely preventing his food from getting stolen by a certain perverted gambling addict.

"So, what _did_ happen?" Vermont asked, finally finding a decent show about Big Foot. But just as she was happy with the show, New Hampshire sat himself down on the couch.

"…The hell is this crap? ICE ROAD TRUCKING'S ON!" New Hampshire grinned and promptly changed the channel, adding, "THIS IS THE DRUNKEN ANTICS EPISODE."

Vermont punched his arm while California cried, "WE HAVE NO MORE STRAWBERRY AND MOUNTAIN BREEZE SHAMPOO! ONLY ROBERT'S DANDRUFF CRAP!"

"Hey, my dandruff crap smells _nice!" _New Hampshire protested, making faces at Vermont while doing so.

"What is with you and smelly shampoos? Both of you?" Vermont sighed, reaching for the remote as New Hampshire pulled it away and oh-so-maturely stuck his tongue out at the smaller girl, who sent him a soulless, gray stare that could break a grown man's spirit in two.

"Hey, I'm _manly."_ New Hampshire grinned winningly and strode out to get a beer, still holding the remote in his right hand.

_Oh Robert,_ Vermont thought, grinning self-victoriously, _you forgot I can get up and change the channel myself._

"…I can't tell which is creepier," California commented, petting Hollywood. "You _smiling _or you _glaring."_

_

* * *

_

Of all the places to sit and think in an insanely crowded house whose inhabitants were even crazier, the attic was sometimes the only place to get a moment to yourself. No, not even the bathroom was safe. Even when locked. You'd be amazed.

The attic was old and dusty, and the only light came from the one window- and it was only a small amount, at that. Old furniture and items covered in sheets and dust cluttered the area, boxes of decorations or things centuries of years old made the room a fire hazard waiting to happen. It smelled like dust and old books, but it was strangely peaceful. The noise from the floors downstairs - which sounded like Alabama yelling at Louisiana - wasn't even too loud.

So that was why New York found himself sitting on one of the many boxes near the window, just thinking. He didn't even know what he was thinking about when he heard a voice from behind him.

"Ben!" said the cheery disembodied voice.

"AH! JESUS CHRIST!" New York jumped up, hitting his head on the low ceiling. "DON'T FREAKING DO THAT, CASEY."

"Sorry," Florida said sheepishly, levering herself off the ladder and on to the attic floor. "It smells up here."

"Well, yeah. God knows when Dad cleaned this out last," New York said, more calmly than before. He regained and settled himself back down on the box. "How did you know I was up here, anyway?"

"I asked Mass and he said you were busy being antisocial. You weren't in your room and Alabama stole your RENT DVD-"

"HE WHAT?" New York cut her off, rather loudly.

"-so I figured you were up here," Florida finished. "And don't worry, I stole it back. God knows what he was going to do with it…probably use it as a weapon against Louisiana. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if he had like, New Orleans by now."

New York breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah, probably."

Florida stood up, keeping her head low, so not to hit it. "I've never been up here," she thought aloud, walking around and looking at the different objects around the room. She blew the dust off of a few boxes, but the labels on them were so faded that they were impossible to read. Deciding to figure things out herself, she opened one of the boxes and looked inside.

"Aw, it's so cute!" Florida said, taking out a small, wooden soldier. It looked handcrafted, though it was so old that she felt she could break the wood just by squeezing too tightly. The paint was old and chipped, but it was still a wooden soldier. "Ben, look! Do you remember this?"

"Hm?" New York looked over his shoulder. "No, not…hey, I think those were dad's, when he was a kid. Grandpa made those…Grandpa England, I mean. Maine used to play with them, but he got too old for them, so we put them in storage. Dad must have brought them up here."

"And he never got rid of them? That's so sweet!" Florida said, gently putting the soldier back and closing the box. "What were you doing up here, anyways?"

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"…Well, it's almost New Year's," New York replied, looking at the cup of coffee he'd placed on the floor by the window. "When you think about it…time flies by so quickly for people like us. Screw 2011, I remember it being 1711."

"I hear you," Florida nodded, walking over and sitting next to him on the box. "I was born…sometime in the 1500's, I can't think. And I remember looking up at the stars with Papa Spain one night and teasing him about how man will never walk on the moon one day. And well…it took a few centuries, but we did."

"You know, I forget how old you are," New York folded his arms, looking at the redheaded girl. "You're older than Avery."

"Eh, I don't act my age," Florida shrugged and stood up, walking over to the window. She shook her fist angrily, and in an airy voice, said, "YOU KIDS GET OFF MY LAWN! Better?"

New York snorted and then said, "You know what I mean. It makes something like a new year sorta insignificant. So much has happened to us...and we're celebrating another year? For what?"

The New Yorker reached for his coffee, which was in an "I HEART NY" mug. He put the coffee to his lips and sipped it.

Florida paused, to think about his point. She folded her arms thoughtfully, and then said, "Because it's a new year, Ben. Don't you get it? We celebrate each new year with the hope that it'll be even better, or for just making it through the last year. 2010 was hard on all of us, let's make 2011 better."

"The years blend together, Casey," New York said, staring out the window. "We only remember the bad stuff, anyway."

"Not true," Florida frowned. "You all remember...Yorktown, was it? When you finally won?"

"…Yeah, but that's different. That's history," New York replied.

"'_Yesterday was history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today…today is a gift. That's what they call it the present_,'" Florida smiled. "Ben, if you're going to have that attitude on everything, you'll never get anywhere. You have to think positively. We celebrate a new year because we're pushing all the bad things of the previous ones behind us. If we dwell on the past, we'll be stuck there forever and never move on. The new year is a blank slate, a chance to start fresh. Hence why everyone tries to diet and blow it by Valentine's Day."

"…You had me up until that last bit." New York took another sip of his coffee. "But I get what you're saying. Do you even bother with resolutions?"

"Of course! Mine this year is to not let Fluffy attack Georgia!" Florida said enthusiastically. Ben opened his mouth to say that she actually made a good resolution when she added, "I want to develop a nonverbal so that I don't even have to _say _it anymore! He'll just do it and she can't prove I was in any way involved!"

"_Yesterday was history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today…today is a gift. That's why they call it the present." A present filled with alligator attacks and a screaming Georgia._

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** Hey guys, it's Reaper. So, the Christmas chapter was late, and we'll get that done after midterms (so in the beginning of February, more likely than not). I am not responsible for any cavities this chapter may or may not cause. I wanted to show some more relationships and sibling fluff, so here you go! Also, if you can guess Alaska's brother, you get major props and an internet cookie. Again, he's not a state.

Reviews make us happy. C:

ONE LAST THING: if you're the one who writes the 50th review, you get to request a fic from us! We'll do mostly anything (except smut and hardcore gore), and all pairings EXCEPT USUK.


	9. Quality Time with Grandpa Iggy

Disclaimer: WE OWN NOTHING BUT OUR OBSCENE AMOUNT OF OCS. SO THERE.

**A/N: **…Hey, guys, we're alive. 8D

* * *

Just as any other day in the Jones household, the day started off normal enough. Except for the fact that it was pouring rain out and California was on the phone with Poland to talk about why Stacey got killed on The Loved and the Loveless…well, hey, she didn't have to pay the phone bill at the end of the month.

America had gone off earlier that morning in a rush; apparently, he had forgotten something important that he was supposed to do. When North Dakota asked where he was going (as America zipped up his signature bomber jacket and chewed a mouthful of blueberry waffle), the self-proclaimed hero simply said, "I'll explain later!"

The states were actually mildly troubled by this. America never just dashed off like that, especially without explanation. Well, except when he realized he was late to watch the new episode of Glee. Then he just ran upstairs and didn't come back for a while (or during a commercial to get a tub of ice cream). A few concerned states sat around the coffee table in the living room.

"He probably forgot there was a world meeting today or something," Florida suggested, petting Fluffy the alligator, who was seated in her lap. Most people would have been somewhat alarmed by this. Most people are not America's states.

"No, he didn't sufficiently complain about paperwork enough," Massachusetts pointed out.

"Why won't this thing open?" Alabama said, rather frustrated, as he struggled with a jar of salsa for the open bag of chips on the table. His knuckles were now white from trying to pull the lid off.

"…Damien, you're gonna hurt yourself." Texas blinked, watching Alabama's battle with an inanimate object. "Just let me do it."

"I can do it myself!" Alabama protested, stubborn as hell. He set the jar down on his lap to shake his hands, which looked like they hurt at this point.

"I bet he realized we're out of burgers," New York said, boredom evident in his tone. He took a sip of coffee. As he did, an irritated-looking Alabama got up, taking the jar with him, into the kitchen.

"He looked like he was late, though." Massachusetts raised an eyebrow. New York shrugged.

Alabama then returned with the salsa and set it down. Only this time, he was wielding a hammer. Before anyone had time to protest, he hit the side of the jar with it, successfully getting salsa and broken glass all over the side of the table and the floor. He grinned self-victoriously. The other states around the table were speechless.

"…Oh, well, that's one way to get it open," Florida said slowly, reaching over a taking a chip from the bag, dipping it in the salsa. She ate it as New York gave her some sort of unreadable expression that was likely along the lines of _what the hell?_

"What?" Florida asked, which was oh-so-ladylike with her mouth full of chip and salsa.

It was at that moment when the door swung open in a manner that could have only been done so by Alfred F. Jones. And if there was any doubt that it was him, it was removed when the all-too familiar voice called out, "KIDS, I'M HOME! Heh, I've always wanted to do that."

"Where were you?" New York asked.

"…Well."

Then the states noticed there was a certain bushy-browed Englishman behind him, not looking too thrilled to be there at the moment, and he had a suitcase with him. America guessed now was a good time to call a family meeting before he proved the fangirls right all along.

* * *

All of the states found themselves crowded on the tons of couches in the living room (because, as we've stated before, those things need to seat fifty-something people) and the floor as America explained what in the hell was going on. He also hadn't noticed the salsa on table, which the states had all silently agreed not to point out until he noticed it himself, just to see how long it would take. England had gone to put his things in the guestroom.

"There's this really big meeting thing in a few days," America explained, "And Iggy needed a place to stay. The hotel he usually stays at is under renovations right now, and the other places are all booked up. It was either this or sharing a room with France."

"…So he'll be here for a few days?" Indiana asked.

"YEP!" America grinned. "And I had to pick him up at the airport this morning, but I forgot and just barely made it. So that's what happened this morning."

The states seemed just as thrilled as England with this news. Actually, the disdain was more from the Original Thirteen; the rest of the states didn't seem too bothered (with the exception of notably Vermont). Sure, the Revolution was years ago; but that didn't stop the memories from flooding back whenever they looked at England. It wasn't even just the Revolution; there was the War of 1812 among others.

This news especially bothered Massachusetts.

* * *

"_Alfred." England's tone clearly indicated that he was not in the best of moods. "I believe this belongs to you."_

_America spun around to see England, holding a very angered-looking Massachusetts by the back of his shirt. Oddly enough, his blond hair had been darkened with soot. He was clad in fringed deerskins, his pale face was painted with what could only be war-paint, and he had stuck a white feather in his hair. He was dressed as an Indian—and it was a pretty clever disguise, if Alfred did say so himself. The young boy had his arms folded, and he was looking over his shoulder and glaring daggers at England._

"_Linus?" America blinked. "What happened?"_

"_Your son," England was practically restraining himself from yelling, "Dumped crate-loads of tea into the bloody harbor!"_

"…_Seriously? GOOD JOB- I mean, uh, bad boy." America's grin had faded when he realized he was supposed to be upset. Really, he wasn't. He was proud._

"_ALFRED!" England said sharply. "Don't you dare encourage this!"_

"_You were asking for it, jerk!" Massachusetts made a move to elbow England's chest, but the latter narrowly avoided this and handed the boy over to America to prevent himself from getting physically harmed. "If you won't let us have a say in the way you run things, we shouldn't have to pay for your messes!"_

"_That 'mess' was to protect ungrateful brats like you!" England snapped._

"_We didn't ask for your protection!" Massachusetts stuck out his tongue while America shushed him, trying to prevent further rage from a very pissed off European._

"_Alfred." England turned his attention back to the boy's father, attempting to regain himself; but he was still seething with anger. "He'll have to be punished for this. This isn't the first time he's acted out like this."_

"_You can't-"_

_America was cut off when England abruptly left the room, uncharacteristically slamming the door behind him. Massachusetts stuck his tongue out after him; had he been like his older self, he would have been flipping England off._

"_Jerk!"_

* * *

"Couldn't we have just left him to fend for himself against France?" Rhode Island asked. "I mean, he's just going to nag us and be grumpy for the next…however many days he has to be here."

"…Unless we screw with him." New Hampshire suddenly had this evil grin spread across his face, one that could only mean something was going to go down that would not end well for the Englishman in question. Vermont sighed, but was secretly more than looking forward to New Hampshire's plans.

"Could we not…? What's the point in starting trouble?" asked Nebraska, a quieter, mild-mannered boy of about fifteen, who was seated next to Kansas. He had light brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles, and wore his plaid shirt open over a green t-shirt. "It'll just get him mad."

"You're no fun, Aiden," Ohio said, only half-teasing. He stood up and gestured to New Hampshire. "If Robert wants to screw with England, we're going to screw with England."

"You asshole, Dad's right there!" Michigan pointed to America. "You don't make these sorts of plans-"

"I didn't hear anything~!" America winked.

Ohio grinned and oh-so-maturely stuck his tongue out at Michigan. Michigan responded by flipping him off.

At that moment, England himself emerged from the guestroom down the hall. He was dressed in the usual green sweater vest, like any of the states expected differently. He had a newspaper folded under his arm and walked over towards his oversized "family".

"Alfred, do you have any- the bloody hell is that on your table?"

Arthur Kirkland motioned to the salsa from Alabama's…creative use of a hammer all over the table. Some of the states giggled, others were anxiously awaiting America's reaction. Others were cursing England for having pointed it out.

Alabama grinned. "Well, ya see-"

"HOLY SHIT! TABLE'S BLEEDING!" America exclaimed loudly, his eyes widening in fear. "I HAVE TO GO CALL MATTIE AND BLOG ABOUT THIS."

England smacked his forehead, wondering for about the second time that day where he had gone wrong with America.

* * *

Later that night, after England had gone to bed due to jetlag and America was blogging about his magical bleeding table, a group of states had gathered in New Hampshire's room for an impromptu meeting that was codenamed "Operation Earl Gray". In Michigan's humble opinion, whoever had come up with that name deserved to be smacked. Unfortunately, it wasn't Ohio.

"Right, so-" New Hampshire gestured towards Vermont, who had been appointed 'the one who writes all the stuff down.' She was sitting in a chair with a notepad and a pen, surveying the group who had shown up. "Any ideas on how to screw with England?"

"If you take any personal stabs at each other, I'm personally going over there and kicking you." Vermont said, shooting a particular look at Michigan and Ohio. She didn't particularly scare either of them, but she could kick _hard_.

"Well, what does he hate the most?" Nevada asked.

"France?" Rhode Island suggested.

"Besides him!"

"…Everything Dad does?"

Clearly, this line of conversation was getting nowhere.

New Hampshire gave a frustrated sigh. "Now that we've established the obvious." He looked over the group, looking for a victi- er, volunteer. "Hey, Michael! Any ideas?"

Connecticut looked up from the book that he was reading. He didn't even want to be there- he had better things to do with his time than think up was to screw with his grandfather figure. He was only there because Rhode Island had dragged him, and because he was a bit of a pushover at that. "What?"

"Any ideas for messing with England?"

"No."

"C'mon, you have to have something." New Hampshire frowned. "England's the reason you're half-blind, you have to want some kind of revenge for that."

Connecticut froze.

New Hampshire was right; England was the reason he no longer had vision in his left eye, which was usually covered by his light blonde hair. It was an old, old injury, back from the Revolution; and there was a reason he wore his hair over it. Around his bad eye was a faded burn scar.

* * *

_Maryland exited the medical tent, sighing a little. Maybe volunteering to be the family's war doctor wasn't the best idea he ever had._

_The sun was setting, though the air still held thick with anxiety. The war wasn't going well- what were they thinking, challenging the greatest army in the world? They weren't thinking. Well, they were, but not logically. New York had pointed that out multiple times, not wanting to get involved in the war at all. Massachusetts had yelled at him, but that was nothing new._

_He took a seat next to Rhode Island around the dying campfire. The smaller colony was poking it half-heartedly with a stick; his blue eyes didn't seem as lively and stubborn as they usually did._

"…_Hey, Charlie," Maryland offered._

"_Andrew." Rhode Island nodded a little. He coughed into his hand, continuing to poke the fire. "…Probably needs another log or something."_

"_Likely," Maryland replied._

"_How's Michael?"_

"…_His eye is injured pretty badly." Maryland said after a pause. He knew Connecticut and Rhode Island were very close, even when they argued. He didn't necessarily want to drop the bad news- not like this. But he couldn't avoid it. "…I don't know if he'll see out of it again."_

_Rhode Island like out a frustrated sigh, poking the fire more. "…What happened, again? Mass told me this morning, but he was in a hurry."_

"…_Do you know where we were getting a lot of our supplies from?"_

"…_Danbury, Connecticut, right- oh."_

_Maryland nodded. "…The British found out, looted, and burned it. You can probably figure out the rest."_

_Rhode Island tightly clenched his fist, dropping the stick he had been prodding the fire with. "…We're not going to let England get away with this."_

* * *

Of course, the city had been rebuilt, and his scar was pretty faded by now, but he was still half-blinded from the incident. Connecticut didn't really mind talking about it, and he didn't hold an insane grudge against England for it- winning the Revolution was revenge enough for him. The Nutmeg State sighed, closing his book.

"…No, that's just stupid and it would make me no better than him."

New Hampshire scoffed. "You're no fun."

Connecticut went back to his book when South Dakota spoke up. "What if North and I switched just to mess with him?"

"…No offense, but no one would really notice," Ohio said, "You two are kind of exactly identical."

"Minnesota says we look nothing alike." South Dakota blinked. "And I have a scar on my knee, Jasp doesn't!"

"Can you please call me by my full names?" North Dakota, who was sitting next to him, sighed. Both boys looked almost exactly alike- both had messy brown hair and blue eyes. They had pale skin, dressed similarly, and had the same facial structure. However, when South Dakota was wearing shorts, it was possible to tell them apart by the wound on his knee. "Jasper or North Dakota. And Minnesota doesn't know nothing about anything."

"…Was that even proper English, Jasp?"

As you could see, this meeting wasn't going anywhere.

New Hampshire opened his mouth to say something when all of a sudden, California, who was petting Hollywood (her white, yappy purse-dog) and twirling a strand of her dyed blonde hair on her index finger spoke up. "What about, like, using water?"

The whole room went silent. Evil grins spread across many faces.

* * *

The next morning started off normally enough for England. He opened the door to the bathroom to find a fairly sizable alligator sleeping in the bathtub. He blinked several times and was about to say some sort of profanity, but then realized he was in America's house, and therefore, this was perfectly acceptable.

With a sigh, he figured he'd take a shower upstairs. If could remember where the upstairs bathrooms were…

He walked into the kitchen (which was just down the hall and through a door), hoping to find someone who didn't hate him that would be so kind as to show him where one of the bathrooms were. There was only one person in the kitchen; Oregon. He was a more Native American-looking boy with green eyes and a beaver on his head.

In America's house, you learn not to ask questions.

"Jason," England said, remembering Oregon's human name as he approached the boy, "Where are one of the upstairs bathrooms?"

"Up the stairs and make a right. End of the hall."

Nodding his thanks, England went upstairs, following Oregon's directions. There were lots of doors which obviously led to various states' rooms; some were labeled, some weren't. The second floor had been allocated to about fifteen states (the original fourteen, Maine, and Vermont), and due to this, it was not as crowded as some of the higher floors. Baseballs and books littered the hallway, and England wondered if it had ever occurred to them to pick up after themselves.

But what disturbed him was that it was eerily silent. For a house of fifty-something people, it should be much louder. Hell, it hadn't even been this quiet when there had been only fourteen people. The only things he could hear were the creaking of floorboards and a TV on in one of the rooms, stating the weather in DC.

They must still be sleeping, England told himself. He took a step towards the bathroom door when he felt something wet crash into his back. Thankfully, he was still in his nightclothes and not his suit or sweater.

Of course, the silence had been too good to be true.

"What in the bloody hell?" England turned to see the remains of what appeared to be a balloon on the ground, and a rather amused Vermont. She smiled innocently. "I didn't do anything, Grandpa."

"ELIZA BONNEFO-"

England cut himself off when he felt more wet things- water balloons- crashing into his back. He turned, rightfully pissed off, to see about fifteen states, whom he knew weren't fans of his. New Hampshire grinned and waved.

"WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL-"

England was cut off once again by Massachusetts, who just so happened to be walking by with a rather thick book under his arm and a cup of coffee (more than likely Dunkin Donuts) in his other hand. He looked at the scene before him, sighing and shaking his head.

"The hell didn't you guys use the Super-soakers?" He asked, and then proceeded to go downstairs to make himself toast.

"…WE HAVE SUPERSOAKERS?" New Hampshire smacked his forehead. "GODDAMN MASSHOLE."

England was seething. "WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL IS THE MEANING OF THIS?"

"It was funny?" Ohio offered. "And relax, we planned this so you wouldn't be dressed yet or showered. Fluffy usually sleeps upstairs, we had Florida put him downstairs so you'd come up here to get assaulted before you got ready."

Oh good, England's grandchildren were evil masterminds…just what he needed. He opened his mouth to reprimand them more when America walk by, obviously having heard all the commotion.

"AMERICA. LOOK WHAT YOUR CHILDREN DID."

America looked from his states to England, then back to his states, then to the remains of water balloon on the hallway floor.

"'Morning, England!"

* * *

**A/N: **Hey guys, Reaper here! Happy belated Canada Day and early Fourth of July! Jabberwock and I apologize for the gap between updates- we've both had school and other crazy things, but now we're on summer break, so I can nag Jabberwock about this fic all I want and not feel guilty- I mean, we can update more. We're releasing the Christmas chapter in August to keep in the true spirit of Hetalia.

Also, thank you all so much for all your kind reviews! We'd personally hug you all if the internet had the ability to do that. Maybe someday. Also, we're going to be writing that promised Civil War fic, and as proof, have a preview!

_(Hey, guys, this is Jabberwock here in the italics and parentheses. Because I'm freaking awesome like that. Haha, no, just kidding. But I'm so sorry we've waited so long to update, and I do take most of the blame for it. Next chapter will come out soon, as we're already planning plots, and I PROMISE that we'll actually update soon. Now, onto the preview!)_

**COMING SUMMER 2011: "INSERT GENERIC HETALIA CIVIL WAR FIC TITLE HERE"!**

"_Ohio!" Michigan cried, trying to make himself louder than the roar of gunfire and the pounding rain to get the other's attention. His dark blue uniform was drenched, and his face was streaked with blood and dirt- whose blood was it? It was impossible to say._

_Ohio turned to see what Michigan wanted just in time for Ohio to catch view of something, his eyes widening. He had just enough time to scream, "WILL, YOU ASS, DUCK!"_

_Michigan didn't even have time to ask Ohio what in the hell he was talking about before he felt something blunt hit the back of his head- hard. His world went black as he fell to the ground, hitting it with a thud as the sight before Ohio was forever burned into his memories._

_Standing over him was a woman dressed in a tattered gray Confederate uniform. Her black hair, which had once primly curled in ringlets around her face, was matted with blood which was not her own. Her gray eyes were spiteful, almost gleeful. She held a gun in her right hand._

_It was pointed straight at Michigan's head. _


End file.
